


to all the raven boys i've loved before

by tamquams



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alive Noah Czerny, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - To All the Boys I've Loved Before Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Declan is a bit more relaxed, Don't Take This Too Seriously, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Ronan Compliant Language, Ronan POV, Underage Drinking, blue and ronan are bros, just another author using tad carruthers as a plot device i'm not sorry, literally so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22935724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquams/pseuds/tamquams
Summary: Ronan turned and watched carefully as Adam jogged across the yard toward him. “Hey,” he said again as he approached. “I have an exceptionally bad idea.”Ronan grinned, all sharp angles and teeth. “I’m listening,” he said.In which Adam and Ronan pretend to date, Aglionby is a public high school, Nino's is a diner, and Matthew Lynch is just a little bit nefarious.
Relationships: Implied/Referenced Adam Parrish/Joseph Kavinsky, Implied/Referenced Declan Lynch/Richard Gansey III, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 87
Kudos: 217





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> So. Funny story. I was re-watching To All the Boys I've Loved Before the other day and jokingly thought to myself, "wow, I should write a Ronan/Adam TATBILB AU!" and then I laughed and carried on not doing that. But then, yesterday, I was working on my Wesper WIP and my traitorous brain suddenly thought the phrase "to all the raven boys i've loved before" and, well, it was too funny to ignore. So here we are. This first chapter is mostly just an introduction, and you don't need to have read or watched To All the Boys I've Loved Before to understand this work. Please don't take this super seriously, it's just something I'm writing for fun to escape the usual angst of my fics. Also, I have taken a LOT of creative liberties with this, but I'm trying to keep Adam and Ronan as in-character as possible. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I have read the book, but it's been a long time, so this is based off of the movie specifically. Some lines are taken directly from the movie, and the very first line of this chapter is the first line of The Dream Thieves.

_A secret is a strange thing._

Ronan Lynch had a secret. Well, five, to be exact. Five stupid little secrets in an old Doc Marten box on the top shelf of his closet, safely out-of-reach from curious little brothers and well-meaning mothers alike. 

Sometimes, when the house was quiet and the bedroom door was locked, Ronan would take the box down and open it. Take his five secrets in his hands, sometimes even daring to open them and trace the familiar words until he could sleep.

Sometimes, he thought about burning them.

His secrets were his letters. His _love_ letters, to be mortifyingly specific. Five handwritten love letters, folded up inside of creamy envelopes and addressed to five different boys. His secret wasn’t his sexuality; although he wasn’t particularly upfront about being gay, he certainly wasn’t hiding anything. His secret was the act of writing the letters at all, and the people that they were addressed to. 

For the most part, the letters were inconsequential. One was addressed to a boy from a fifth-grade tennis tournament, another to a boy from a middle-school summer camp. The subjects of two of the other letters were classmates of Ronan’s, a boy he had kissed during spin-the-bottle in seventh grade and a boy he had danced with at freshman homecoming, but only one particularly mattered anymore: letter number five, with the name _RICHARD CAMPBELL GANSEY III_ emblazoned on the envelope.

Richard Campbell Gansey III, who was Ronan’s childhood best friend and his older brother Declan’s boyfriend.

The fifth letter was the most important, because it was the only one left that was true. Ronan was still very much in love with Gansey, and Gansey was still very much in love with Declan, and Declan was… well, he was Declan. He was a sickeningly good older brother who felt so bad for stealing Ronan’s best friend that he invited Ronan on most of his dates with Gansey. Which was embarrassing, and annoying, but, well, it wasn’t like Ronan had anything better to do. 

But summer was drawing to a close, and with it, life as Ronan knew it. Come fall, Declan would be leaving for college overseas, and he would suddenly be the oldest brother, which meant he was going to have to be Responsible and he was going to have to become a More Careful Driver and he was going to have to Set a Good Example for Matthew. None of this particularly excited Ronan, but the only thing worse than being a good older brother was being a bad older brother, so he resigned himself to his fate.

But then several things all happened in a very short period of time, causing Ronan to rethink everything he had ever known, period.

The first surprise came the night before Declan was supposed to leave for college.

Family dinner was a sacred tradition for the Lynch family. They had always been quite close with each other, but after the death of Ronan’s father, Niall, they clung to each other just a bit more. They ate dinner together nearly every night and had movie nights and game nights and all sorts of other nights that would have ruined Ronan’s reputation had his classmates ever learned about them. Ronan’s mother, Aurora, was a spectacularly sweet woman and wonderful mother. His older brother, Declan, was organized, responsible, and ambitious as all get-out. His younger brother, Matthew, was very kind and very fun-loving and just a tiny bit mischievous.

And Ronan was, well, just Ronan.

Family dinner had, in recent years, expanded just enough to include a fifth person: Gansey, Declan’s perfect boyfriend, Ronan’s former best friend, the literal boy-next-door. He possessed a standing invitation to all Lynch-family gatherings unless otherwise specified, and he was adored by each and every one of them, albeit in different ways. Matthew obviously viewed Gansey as another older brother, idolizing him in ways he refused to admire Declan and Ronan. Aurora thought that Gansey was a good influence on all three of her sons, because all Lynch boys were made of war and wolves, but Gansey was Kevlar, and he was good at minimizing the casualties of Lynch-caused chaos. Declan was in love with Gansey, because Gansey was golden, Gansey was a god. 

Ronan was in love with Gansey, too. But he was a Lynch, and Lynch brothers did not stab other Lynch brothers in the back. So he wrote Gansey a love letter and tucked it away in the box and hoped that would be the end of it.

Things so rarely worked out like that for Ronan. He should have known better.

It was the last proper family dinner until Christmas. Christmas, because Declan wasn’t going to come home for Ronan’s birthday _or_ Thanksgiving, because “plane tickets cost _money_ , Ronan.” Aurora had cooked some sort of Irish dish that was supposed to remind the boys of their father but really just reminded Ronan of a science experiment gone wrong. They all pretended to enjoy the food, because nobody could stand the thought of hurting Aurora’s feelings, and they made conversation like always, and then Ronan zoned out for just a second, and when he zoned back in, he found himself stranded in a no man’s land.

“Did you already pay for that?” Declan’s voice was pure ice as it cut across the table toward Gansey.

Gansey was frowning. “Yes,” he said, and he sounded like he was very confused but pretending to only be a little confused. He held a piece of paper in his hands — a plane ticket. “Why wouldn’t I have?”

Declan was obviously seething in his chair beside Ronan. “I’ll take care of the dishes,” he snapped, standing up so aggressively that his chair toppled over backwards. He grabbed at his own plate, and then Ronan’s. When he reached out for Matthew’s plate, Matthew pulled it back, out of Declan’s reach.

“‘M not done,” Matthew muttered through a full mouth.

Declan rolled his eyes and took Gansey’s plate instead, but when he reached out to take Aurora’s, his movements were much gentler. She looked up at him sternly.

“Declan,” she reprimanded, but her voice was soft. He just nodded vaguely and stormed out of the room.

The remaining Lynches (plus Gansey) remained quiet for a very long moment until Matthew broke the silence. “That was good, Mom,” he said in his abnormally pleasant voice, and she gave him a warm smile across the table.

Declan did not return.

Ronan was reading the letters when he heard a knock at his bedroom door. 

“Just a second!” he called out instinctively, folding the paper of Gansey’s letter carefully and replacing it in its envelope. There was a second, more insistent knock. “Hold the fuck on!” He launched himself off the bed to put the box back in the closet. Once it was settled in its usual spot, Ronan finally unlocked the door and threw it open, revealing a very agitated Declan.

“The hell were you doing?” he huffed, shoving past Ronan to fling himself down on the bed. “On second thought, I probably don’t wanna know.” He kicked off his shoes and burrowed into one of the pillows, his back to his brother.

“Come on in,” said Ronan sarcastically, leaving the door open as he crossed the room to sit on the empty side of his bed. He sat back and leaned against the headboard, waiting for Declan to say something.

It was only a couple of minutes before Declan decided to reveal what was bothering him. “I broke up with Gansey,” he said quietly. Ronan jolted.

“What” Ronan asked, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “You _what_?”

Declan just shrugged one shoulder, looking deliberately in the opposite direction.

Ronan wasn’t having any of that shit. “Why?”

Declan rolled over onto his back, craning his head slightly as if he were searching for something. “Dad said I shouldn’t go to college with a girlfriend,” he said softly.

Ronan snorted. “Well, buddy, do I have some news for you about Gansey.”

“Shithead,” Declan said, but the roll of his eyes was equal parts fondness and exasperation. “I figure the ‘or boyfriend’ part was implied.” 

Ronan just hummed, making himself more comfortable. It was rare for Declan to come to him these days, even rarer for them to have a conversation that spanned beyond “stop it with the drag-racing, Ronan, I swear to _God_.” He would never admit it, but it was comforting to have Declan’s solid presence there, filling the room with breathing sounds and warmth. It wasn’t like having a father, but it was like having a brother, which was something Ronan liked very much.

The next day, the Lynches drove to the airport and said goodbye to Declan. He didn’t spare them a backwards glance as he boarded. Ronan would have been disappointed if he did.

“Nice boots,” a familiar voice said mockingly. “We thank you for your service.”

Ronan slammed his locker door shut and turned his head slightly. Leaning against the lockers just a few feet away was Joseph Kavinsky, Ronan’s very least favorite classmate at Aglionby High School. Kavinsky and Ronan had been enemies for so long that Ronan couldn’t quite remember why they had initially begun to hate each other; he just knew that they still did. He opened his mouth to snarl back at him, but another voice interrupted his comeback.

“Actually, they _are_ nice boots,” said a girl’s voice from somewhere below Ronan’s shoulder. “They’re cool as hell. Whereas _your_ shoes, well…” her voice trailed off meaningfully as Ronan and Kavinsky both instinctively looked down at his New Balances. Kavinsky opened his mouth to say something that was probably going to be overtly racist or sexist, but his eyes landed on somebody approaching and he stopped himself.

“Hey, babe,” said another voice as a boy with brown hair rounded the corner and wrapped an arm around Kavinsky. He was smiling, but as soon as he noticed Ronan, his mouth dropped open a little in surprise. “Oh, hey, Lynch,” Adam Parrish said with a polite nod, his arm tensing at Kavinsky’s waist. 

Ronan said nothing. The girl at his side, Blue Sargent, gave both Adam and Kavinsky a look that might have been a smile and might have been a snarl. “Adam,” she said coolly, crossing her arms.

Adam nodded again, clearly feeling uncomfortable, and then suddenly Kavinsky was turning and walking away, muttering something to Adam about schedule changes or lunch periods. Adam remained frozen for a moment, gaze flickering awkwardly between his boyfriend’s receding form and Ronan and Blue’s unreadable gazes.

“Sorry about that,” he said after a moment, running a hand through his hair nervously. “He’s, um, cutting back on caffeine or something.” His lips twitched in some sort of anxious smile and then he turned and walked away, leaving Ronan and Blue standing in the middle of the hallway.

“Fuck, I hate him,” Ronan muttered after a moment, meaning Kavinsky.

“I thought you thought he was cute?” asked Blue, meaning Adam.

Ronan rolled his eyes and shoved Blue’s shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said.

Ronan loved to drive.

All three of the Lynch brothers loved cars; it was in their DNA. Declan drove a Volvo, the most boring car in the world, because he was Responsible. Matthew was too young to have a license, but his dream car was a Jeep, because he was Fun.

Ronan drove a BMW, because he was Ronan.

So, the problem wasn’t that Ronan didn’t like to drive. No, the problem was that he _did_. He liked it too much, honestly. He liked running red lights and racing sleek sports cars and crashing through fields in his shiny black Beemer. Getting behind the wheel felt a bit like getting drunk, which was probably a bad thing.

No, it was _definitely_ a bad thing.

Because Ronan was what Declan would call “an irresponsible driver,” he had never been charged with chauffeuring his younger brother around town. Which was fine with Ronan, because he had much better things to do, anyway. But since Declan was gone and Aurora was at work, it was suddenly Ronan’s responsibility to drive Matthew to and from school every day.

This was not an arrangement that either boy enjoyed very much.

“Ronan!” Matthew called out as he trotted out the school’s doors. Matthew loved to greet people as if he hadn’t seen them in years — it was a habit he had picked up from Gansey. Ronan wasn’t sure who pulled it off more. 

“Come on,” said Ronan gruffly, pushing himself off from where he leaned against the side of his car. He climbed in the driver’s seat and twisted his key in the ignition as Matthew got in.

“How was school?” Ronan asked, because that seemed like the type of thing a responsible older brother would do.

“It was fantastic!” Matthew exclaimed, and then he launched into a monologue about lunchtime seating arrangements. Ronan began to reverse, glancing idly at his rearview mirror, and then—

Adam Parrish’s face just behind the Beemer. 

Ronan slammed on the breaks, swearing under his breath, as Matthew began to guffaw in the passenger’s seat. A moment later, there was a knock at Ronan’s driver side window.

Grinding his teeth, Ronan rolled the window down. He stared straight ahead, not acknowledging Adam, but even without looking he could tell that the boy was smirking at him.

“You know,” said Adam Parrish in a Henrietta accent that did weird things to Ronan’s heart, “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to check behind you before backing up.”

Matthew laughed louder, but Ronan just swallowed hard. “Thanks for the tip,” he snapped, still not looking at Adam.

“You guys gonna be alright to get home?” 

“We’ll be fine,” Ronan snarled, feeling himself flush bright pink. Man, fuck his stupid Irish genes. 

Adam took a step back, and then bent down a little to point at Matthew. “You’re in charge,” he said with a laugh, and then he was walking away.

“Who was that?” Matthew asked between giggles as Ronan ripped out of the parking lot.

Ronan shifted gears, grinding his teeth. “Adam fucking Parrish.”

“Ronan, you know I love you,” Matthew began.

They were each laying on different sides of their sectional couch, their feet meeting in the middle, and Ronan was half asleep when Matthew started talking. The television in front of them was playing an old episode of The X Files on low volume, and the den was dark and quiet in a way that never failed to put Ronan to sleep. He pushed himself up on his elbows and shot Matthew a look that said _Go on._

“I like watching TV with you,” Matthew said with a smile. He was a very smiley boy, even when he was saying or doing something unpleasant. “But don’t you think it’s, I dunno, kinda sad that it’s Friday night, and you’re here marathoning The X Files with me?”

Ronan furrowed his brows, sitting up straighter. “What else would I be doing?”

Matthew shrugged. “Hanging out with your friends?” he suggested.

Ronan just frowned.

“Look, all I’m saying is, you’re seventeen. You should be out having fun, not watching TV in the dark with your little brother.”

“And what about you?”

Matthew’s smile turned into a grimace. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Ronan, but I… had to cancel plans… to be here tonight.”

“Oh.” Ronan leaned back against the cushions of the couch again. “ _Oh._ ”

Matthew kind of had a point. Ronan really did spend all of his time hanging out around the house. He didn’t go to parties, and he hardly ever invited Blue over. His only interactions with his classmates outside of school occurred when he allowed himself to be baited into drag races on his way to or from school, church, or the store. He really should have put more effort into making friends and being social and shit, but to be completely honest, he didn’t really like most of his classmates. He really didn’t like them at all.

The second surprise came two weeks into the school year.

Ronan did not like going to school. Not in the way that most people don’t like going to school, but in a deep, distressed sort of way that made each moment spent on the Aglionby campus pure torture. He would have preferred to spend his time doing more enjoyable things, like eating glass or drinking bleach. But Declan was gone and Ronan was the oldest brother, so he was going to set a good example, by God. 

So he went to school. He did not participate in street races with Matthew in the car. He did enough of his homework to get by. And all the while, he felt like he was dying inside. Really, truly dying. He missed Declan. He missed Gansey, because Gansey had stopped coming to family dinner or inviting Ronan over. The only people he had left were Aurora and Matthew and Blue, and although keeping a close circle had never bothered him before, Ronan suddenly felt so lonely it made him sick.

“You good?” Blue panted from his left side.

It was their last period of the day, phys ed, and they were running laps on the track behind the gymnasium. The jagged edges of Ronan’s tattoo peaked out over the collar of his t-shirt and his running shorts showed off his long, pale legs. Blue, over a foot shorter than him, was in an identical outfit, minus the tattoo and the paleness. Her dark skin was better suited to the colors of their gym clothes, and her short hair was pulled back by a dozen clips. She had to jog a little faster than she would’ve liked to keep up with him, so he made an effort to slow down a little. 

“Shut up,” he said without heat. 

Blue just smiled, open-mouthed and genuine. She was just opening her mouth to say something back when somebody nearby called out after them.

“Hey, Lynch!” yelled Adam Parrish, jogging up beside them. He obviously didn’t have P.E. that hour; he was in jeans and a t-shirt. That fact did not seem to slow him down in the slightest.

“Hey, Parrish,” Ronan said warily, speeding up slightly.

“Hey, Adam,” said Blue cheerfully. Both boys looked at her in surprise — she was not a person who did many things with cheer. “Heard that Kavinsky dumped you for a college guy.” Which. Huh. That was news to Ronan.

Adam frowned but kept pace with them. He glanced at Blue, who was looking at him curiously, and then said, “I need to talk to Ronan for a second.”

“Okay,” she said without leaving.

“Alone.”

Blue turned to Ronan then. He nodded once and she finally stopped, bracing her hands against her knees for a second. “Text me if you need me,” she said as Ronan and Adam continued jogging for a few seconds until they were alone and out of earshot of anyone else.

“So,” Adam began, running his hand through his hair in what Ronan was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit, “I just wanted to say that, uh, you’re really cool, and I’m, um, flattered, but you know, it’s, uh, it’s never gonna happen.”

Ronan blinked at him a couple of times, scratching the back of his neck absently. He waited a moment, giving Adam time to elaborate, but Adam seemed to have said all he had to say. Ronan arched an eyebrow. “The fuck you talking about, Parrish?”

Adam held up what looked like a piece of paper. “Uh, the love letter you sent me?”

Ronan’s brain did several things then: first, it dredged up the four-year-old memory of kissing Adam Parrish during spin-the-bottle in seventh grade. Ronan’s first kiss. The moment that made him fall in love; the moment that the letter described in _great detail_ as one of the best moments of his life.

Then, Ronan’s brain short-circuited, unable to process any of the information in front of him. After a second, it rebooted, taking in everything all at once. And then, finally, it sorted it all out, allowing Ronan to understand what was happening.

Adam Parrish was standing in front of him, holding his love letter.

And, well. About ten yards behind Adam, Gansey was walking toward them purposefully, with an identical envelope clutched in his left hand.

Ronan’s brain stopped working again.

He knew his brain had stopped working because his body was moving of its own accord. He certainly did not plan on reaching out and pulling Adam to him in a searing kiss. He also did not plan on Adam kissing him back, but, well. He did. He definitely did.

At least, for like, two seconds.

And then they were both pulling away, and Ronan was looking up to see Gansey frozen on the walkway a few yards away, and Adam was staring at him incredulously, and all Ronan could think was _Jesus fuck._

“Hey!” the coach yelled from somewhere behind Ronan. Grateful for the distraction, he turned around. “Two more laps, Lynch!”

Ronan ran.

He did not run two more laps. Instead, he ran inside, down a few different hallways, and then disappeared into a bathroom that he prayed would be empty.

It was.

Breathing hard, Ronan launched himself into the first stall and locked the door, then leaned back against it and tried to catch his breath. Fuck. Fuck. What was he going to _do_? Fuck.

The bathroom door opened slowly.

“Ronan?” a soft voice said. “You in there?”

Ronan paused. “No.”

Slowly, an envelope slid under the stall door. He caught a glimpse of the name on it: _NOAH CZERNY_. “I thought you might want this back,” Noah said. “It seemed… personal.”

Ronan touched the envelope with the toe of his Nikes. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

They were both quiet for a few seconds, and then Noah said, “I had a great time at freshman homecoming, but you know I’m ace, right?”

Ronan did not know this. “Yeah,” he said.

The stall door shifted as Noah leaned against the other side of it. “You good?” he asked.

Ronan bit back whatever cruel remark was on the tip of his tongue. “I’m fine,” he lied. He stooped to pick up the letter, then unlocked the stall door. “I should go.”

Noah nodded. He nudged Ronan’s arm with his elbow. “See ya ‘round,” he said, and Ronan gave him one last grateful look before leaving the restroom.

Ronan had been home for less than an hour when he heard the knock at his front door that he had been dreading. He didn’t have to look out the window to know that it was Gansey, probably still holding that envelope like it was full of fucking anthrax. Ronan was _not_ dealing with that shit today. Nope.

“You never saw me,” he muttered darkly to Matthew as he darted up the stairs.

“Ronan!” Aurora called out a few moments later. “Gansey’s here to see you!”

Ronan hardly heard her. He was already halfway out his bedroom window, attempting to untangle his boot from the curtains. He had been hoping for a graceful dismount from the roof, but instead he tripped and rolled straight off the edge, landing on his back in an empty flower bed with a dull _thud_. For a moment, it was all he could do to lay there and catch his breath, holding in the pained moan threatening to spill over his lips. And then he was up and over the back fence, heading as far away from Gansey as he could go.

His legs took him to Nino’s. He hadn’t even realized he was going there until he was standing on the curb just outside the front entrance, blinking up at the neon sign. For a moment, he considered turning and walking elsewhere, but then he decided against it. He could go for a shake, and hey, maybe Blue was working. He’d never admit it, but he found her presence to be very comforting sometimes. 

Blue was not working. The diner was practically empty, save for a couple of customers in a booth in the back and one waitress, an older lady who Ronan knew but couldn’t put a name to. He sat at the counter and ordered a milkshake, acutely aware of his phone vibrating endlessly in his back pocket. 

“Here you go, sweetheart,” the waitress said as she placed a tall glass in front of Ronan. He nodded his thanks, and was just leaning down to sip at the straw when she continued, “Does your friend here want anything?”

Surprised, Ronan turned and saw Adam Parrish sitting two seats down.

“He’s not my friend,” Ronan said at the same moment that Adam said, “A vanilla shake would be fantastic, ma’am.” The waitress smiled and turned back to the kitchen. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Ronan said as soon as the waitress was out of earshot. The tips of his ears were already burning. “That was— I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t _mean_ to kiss me?” Adam raised an eyebrow, tapping his fingers against the counter. 

“No — well, yes, actually, but — I’m not into you like that,” Ronan tried. He hated communicating verbally; words did not come to him like they were supposed to. He sighed, frustrated, and took a long sip from his chocolate milkshake.

“See, your mouth is saying one thing, but your mouth said something completely different earlier.” 

When Ronan risked a glance at Adam, Adam was still looking at him. Strangely, he didn’t seem angry or uncomfortable; in fact, he looked downright amused. Ronan didn’t care for that shit at all.

“It wasn’t even about you,” he snapped, just as the waitress returned with Adam’s shake. She looked between the two of them for a second but said nothing, just set the glass down in front of Adam and left them alone at the counter again.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Adam said politely to her back, and then he turned back to Ronan. “It wasn’t even about me?” he asked, pretending to be hurt. “Well, then, who was it about?”

Ronan shook his head. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he huffed.

Adam slurped loudly at his shake for a second. “Well, normally I’d respect that, but I feel like you kinda owe me an explanation, Lynch,” he said.

Ronan ground his teeth. “If I tell you, will you leave me the fuck alone?”

“Sure.”

“The letter you got — I wrote it in seventh fucking grade. It’s been in my closet for, like, four years. In a box with four other letters just like it. I don’t know what happened. Maybe my mom was cleaning and found the box and decided to send them or something. She says she doesn’t know. Anyway. I guess they were all sent out.”

Adam rolled his straw between his fingers. “Four other letters, huh? Man. Thought I was special.”

A small laugh escaped Ronan’s lips. “Well, you’re not. Anyway. Um. Most of the letters didn’t go to anybody important. But, well, one of them was addressed to…”

“To?”

“Gansey.”

Adam was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Isn’t Gansey dating your brother?”

“They broke up,” said Ronan defensively, but then he gave a defeated sigh. “But it doesn’t matter. He’ll always be Declan’s ex. And when we were talking on the track, I saw him coming, and I didn’t think. I just kissed you.”

“I still don’t think I get it.”

Ronan turned fully in his stool, facing Adam head-on. “I needed Gansey to think that I liked you so he wouldn’t think that I liked him.”

Adam nodded slowly. “Oh. Okay.”

Ronan grabbed his shake, raised it to his mouth, and downed the rest of it one go. With one hand, he grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and slipped a ten dollar bill out to lay on the counter; he wiped the back of the other hand over his mouth. “So, are we done here?” he asked, standing.

Adam nodded again, taking another long sip of his drink. Then he said, “I didn’t see the Beemer outside.”

It pleased Ronan greatly to know that Adam knew what his car looked like. It also flustered him to no end. “I walked,” he said with a shrug.

Adam fished a bill out of his pocket and set it on top of Ronan’s, bringing their total payment to a whopping four times the amount necessary. “Want a ride?”

Adam’s car fucking sucked, to say the least.

It seemed to be made entirely from spare parts, and not even spare parts that matched; it was as if someone had taken apart three different cars and smashed them together in the ugliest way possible. Its Frankensteinian appearance offended Ronan’s Catholic sensibilities.

“This is a piece of shit,” he said happily as he slid into the passenger’s seat.

“Yup,” Adam said with equal enthusiasm. 

“It’s gonna ruin my reputation if anyone sees me in this thing.”

“Yup.”

When they finally slowed to a stop in front of Ronan’s house, they were both silent for a moment, and then Ronan was shoving the door open and stretching his legs out.

“Well, thanks for the ride, I guess,” he said. 

“What are you gonna do about Gansey?” asked Adam suddenly.

Ronan paused. He exhaled deeply, then said, “Guess I’m gonna have to tell him the truth.” He stood and rapped two knuckles against the roof of the car, then walked away.

He expected Adam to leave and that would be the end of it, but he was halfway up the front walkway when he heard the car’s engine shut off. “Hey, Lynch, wait up,” Adam called out, and then a car door opened and closed.

Ronan turned and watched carefully as Adam jogged across the yard toward him. “Hey,” he said again as he approached. “I have an exceptionally bad idea.”

Ronan grinned, all sharp angles and teeth. “I’m listening,” he said.

Adam’s cheeks were turning pink. “What if… what if you didn’t tell Gansey?”

“What do you mean?” Ronan arched an eyebrow.

“I mean, what if you, like, let Gansey think we’re dating? Or, like, let _everyone_ think we were dating?”

Now it was Ronan’s turn to blush. “Huh?” he said, blinking rapidly. “Why would — why would you want that?”

Adam fidgeted with his hands. “Well, I mean, K lost it when he heard that you kissed me. Maybe it would make him jealous.” For some reason Ronan couldn’t quite name, his heart sank as Adam talked about Kavinsky. But then he continued, “And it would definitely make Gansey think that you didn’t like him. It could fix both our problems.”

“I’m not your damn pawn, Parrish,” Ronan snapped.

Adam cocked his head. “And I’m not yours,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “and yet you used me as one on the track today, if I recall correctly.”

Damn him. Damn Adam Parrish. Ronan hated him.

Except, really, he didn’t.

“Just think about it,” Adam said, a little softer. He flashed Ronan a smile, a real smile, and then he was gone. Ronan remained frozen in his yard for a minute, and as he finally turned to go inside, he realized that he was smiling, too.

Adam Parrish, it turned out, played lacrosse. Who knew.

Well, Ronan knew. That was evident by the way he stomped across the field the next afternoon, the team parting in front of him like the Red Sea as he made his way to the goalpost at the end. Adam’s back was to him, but the jersey with the name _PARRISH_ stitched on the back confirmed his identity for Ronan anyway.

“Hey Parrish,” he yelled, stopping a few yards away.

Adam turned, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He walked the last bit of distance between them, meeting Ronan wordlessly. They were both very aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes trained on them.

“Let’s do this,” Ronan huffed, his chin tilted in defiance.

Adam grinned, the smile spreading to his eyes. Ronan’s heart skipped a beat. He was just thinking that hey, Adam kind of had a nice smile, when suddenly he was being kissed. 

Adam Parrish was kissing him in front of the entire lacrosse team.

This was gonna be one hell of a ride.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I can easily say that writing this chapter was the most fun I've had writing in a LONG time. I had to actually make myself stop and leave some fluff for the next chapter. I usually write angst, but I can honestly say that writing shameless pining and flirting is so. Much. Better. Also, I manage to use the word "fuck" (or a variation of it, such as fucking or fuckton) THIRTY ONE TIMES in this chapter. That is definitely a personal record. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“So. Obviously, we’re gonna need some rules.”

It was lunchtime at Aglionby High, and Ronan and Adam were sitting at an isolated picnic table behind the school, odd pieces of their lunches mixed on the tabletop. The banana and turkey-on-wheat sandwich cut in half diagonally were from Adam’s brown paper bag; the peanut butter crackers, sour-cream-and-onion chips, and blue Powerade were supplied by Ronan’s trip to the vending machine. In the seven minutes they had been situated at the table, Ronan had already figured out that Adam would not take anything for free, but if Ronan took half the sandwich, Adam would have a few crackers. Ronan ate the banana, and Adam helped himself to a handful of chips. Give and take. Give and take.

He was pretty sure that was how the entire fake relationship was going to be.

Ronan raised an eyebrow at Adam. “Rules?” he repeated, his voice full of Ronan-typical disdain. “Hell, Parrish, you sure know how to take the fun out of everything, don’t you?”

Adam shot him an unimpressed look. “Rules will help us stay on the same page,” he said, flipping through his spiral notebook till he found a blank page. He reached into one of the pockets of his threadbare backpack and pulled out a cheap black pen, clicked it meaningfully. “So. Do you have any rules you would like me to be aware of?”

Ronan took a long drink of Powerade and then dragged the back of his hand across his lips messily; he offered the bottle to Adam and received a glare in response. “Yeah, fine,” said Ronan, scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to kiss me anymore.”

A crease appeared between Adam’s brows, and Ronan felt the strangest urge to reach out and rub his thumb against the spot till the skin smoothed out. He took a large bite of the piece of sandwich he had stolen from Adam instead.

“Why not?” Adam asked, even as he wrote the rule down in his notebook. He was frowning at the page as if it had personally insulted him, and Ronan almost felt bad. Almost.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” Ronan huffed, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You- you’re all experienced, and shit. But I’ve never, you know, done all that. And I don’t want all my firsts to be fuckin’ fake.” It was an embarrassing thing to worry about, really, and even more embarrassing to say out loud, but it was also important to him. This was Adam’s idea, anyway — if he didn’t like Ronan’s terms, he could just walk away.

“Aw, you a hopeless romantic underneath all of that, Lynch?” Adam said mockingly, but his smile was not unkind. He punctuated the first rule and then looked up, still smiling. “Nobody’s gonna believe we’re in a relationship if I’m not allowed to kiss you, but whatever. Your call.” Ronan’s heart clenched. “So, am I allowed to touch you at all, or do I have to keep at least five feet of distance at all times?”

“Fuck you, Parrish,” Ronan said without malice, turning and pulling his legs up to rest on the bench. “Here, how about this: you can put your hand in my back pocket, fuckin’ Sixteen Candles style.”

Adam paused, a cracker halfway to his mouth. “The hell are you talking about?”

“Sixteen Candles?” Ronan swung his legs back down, leaned forward against the table. “Iconic eighties movie? John Hughes, Molly fuckin’ Ringwald? You don’t know Sixteen Candles?”

Adam shoved the cracker into his mouth, chewed, swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” he said, voice scratchy, “but I haven’t _seen_ it. Because I’m not, you know, a giant nerd.”

Ronan narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you again,” he said, and he took another swig of Powerade. “New rule: you have to watch Sixteen Candles with me.”

“No way, Lynch, I’m not—”

“We watch Sixteen Candles, or you can find someone else to fake-date.” 

Adam’s jaw twitched. “Fine,” he said, writing it down carefully on the paper. “What else?”

Ronan thought for a second. “We can’t tell anyone this is fake,” he said decisively, screwing the cap back on the Powerade bottle. “Ever. That would be way too fucking humiliating.”

“You don’t strike me as somebody who cares what other people think of them,” said Adam as he skipped a line on the page and began scrawling the next rule. 

“I don’t.” Ronan’s voice was defensive but without heat. “But, shit, this is a lot different from wearing combat boots or street-racing or whatever. Plus, I really don’t fuckin’ wanna explain it to my brothers.”

Adam dotted an ‘i’ aggressively. “Yeah. First rule of fight club, and everything.”

Ronan just arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” groaned Adam, dropping his forehead into his hands. “You’ve seen Sixteen Candles, but you haven’t watched Fight Club? You’re killin’ me, Lynch.” Ronan noticed with immense pleasure that when Adam was particularly tired or frustrated or nervous, his accent grew stronger, and he always seemed to be feeling at least one of those emotions when interacting with Ronan. “Okay, new rule: you have to watch Fight Club with me. We’ll make it a double-feature movie night.” He began adding it to the list.

“I don’t think I wanna watch some fuckin’ misogynistic Quentin Tarantino movie about homophobic assholes beating the shit out of each other, thank you very much,” Ronan said.

Adam just continued writing. “Well, then you’re in luck, because it is not a Quentin Tarantino movie. It’s David Fincher.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “Fine. What the fuck ever. Do you have any real rules to add?”

“Hm,” Adam hummed, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the table. “How about… I could, like, write you notes, or somethin’.” He seemed a little more nervous to make this suggestion than Ronan had seen him yet. Ronan was intrigued.

“Whaddya mean?” asked Ronan around a mouthful of chips.

Adam sighed. “K was always on my ass to write him, like, these nice little notes. It would drive him crazy if I did that for you.”

Up until that moment, Ronan had nearly forgotten about Kavinsky, and about how Gansey, and about the whole ‘fake’ part of the ‘fake relationship’ thing they were doing. Remembering it was like a punch to the gut, minus all of Ronan’s favorite parts. His eyes narrowed. “Fine. You can give me stupid notes or whatever.”

For a second, something like _hurt_ clouded Adam’s eyes, but then he was looking down to add the new rule to the list and Ronan couldn’t see his face well enough to read it anymore. “Great. And, also, you have to come to lacrosse games and parties with me.”

“Wait, wait, wait. _You_ go to parties, Parrish?” Adam nodded, still not looking up. “Doesn’t that, like, take time away from your homework and thirty jobs?”

Adam finally paused to glare up at Ronan. “It’s three jobs, asshole,” he said, his hand still moving across the paper. “And I make it work.”

Ronan snorted. “Fine, I’ll go to your games and your damn parties. But _you_ have to drive my brother and I to and from school every day.”

“You have a car, though,” said Adam, making a face at the paper even as he added Ronan’s rule. “A _nice_ car. And don’t tell me you don’t like to drive, because I know you do.”

Ronan gave half a shrug. “I fuckin’ love to drive, that’s the problem. Apparently I’m not a ‘safe driver,’ or whatever, and I don’t wanna put Matthew in danger, but I’m not very good at following rules.”

Adam muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “ _You can say that again._ ”

“So,” Ronan continued, “how about you drive to my house in the morning, leave your shitbox there, and then drive us in the Beemer and switch back to your car at the end of the day?”

Adam stared at the notebook for a long time before answering. “Fine,” he said in a defeated voice, adding one last word to his scribbled sentence and then putting the pen down. He seemed to be thinking hard about something, weighing pros and cons or doing whatever normal people did when trying to make a big decision. Finally, he picked up the pen again and began adding another rule. “But you’re coming with me on the ski trip.”

Oh. Oh no.

Every year, Aglionby High School hosted a trip where students got to go to a nice ski lodge for the first weekend of winter break and, well, ski. Supposedly. It was the type of activity that lacrosse players like Adam attended every year without fair, and people like Ronan avoided like the plague. The trip was a running joke among every student and staff member at Aglionby for its reputation as being the weekend where the most amount of students lost their virginities in the entire year. 

Needless to say, Ronan had never gone.

Ronan started shaking his head. “Oh, _hell_ no, Parrish,” he said, reaching out to take the pen from Adam’s hand. Adam darted away, standing up and backing away from the table. “I’m not going on that, that, that fucking—”

“What are you so afraid of, Lynch? I thought rich boys like you learned how to ski before you could walk.” Adam braced one hand under the notebook as he continued writing, completely unaware of Ronan’s signature glower aimed directly at him. Or, aware and uncaring.

Was it weird that Ronan thought it was hot when guys weren’t intimidated by him? It was weird.

“That’s, like, three months away from now anyway,” Ronan added, also standing up. “You don’t think we’re still gonna be doing, you know, this whole thing _that_ long?”

Adam finished what he was writing and drew two long lines across the bottom of the page. “Probably not,” he admitted, his face unreadable. “But if we are, then you’re coming. It’s non-negotiable.”

And only, only, _only_ because Ronan was completely sure they would not still be fake-dating by the time the ski trip rolled around, he said, “Fine.”

With a triumphant grin, Adam scrawled something along the bottom of the page and then slapped the notebook down in front of Ronan. “Sign here,” he said, tapping the empty space above a line with the tip of the pen. Ronan signed, his sharp signature looking entirely out of place beside Adam’s loopy one.

When Ronan looked up, Adam was still smiling. He let his own lips quirk up slightly in reply. 

They were officially fake-dating.

“Hurry the fuck up!” Ronan yelled up the stairs. 

“Ronan,” Aurora’s voice reprimanded from one room over.

Ronan winced. “Sorry, Mom,” he said, and then he turned back to the foot of the stairs. “Come _on_ , Matthew—” His shouting was interrupted by Matthews’ body hurling itself down the stairs, nearly knocking Ronan on his ass.

“I’m here,” Matthew panted, as if it wasn’t painfully obvious. “Love you, bye, Mom!”

“Love you!” Ronan yelled.

“Love you, boys, have a good day!” Aurora called out from the kitchen, and then Ronan was shoving Matthew out the front door unceremoniously.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Matthew turned a pleading look on Ronan. “ _Please_ don’t go above seventy today,” he begged, and Ronan just reached out to ruffle his younger brother’s curls. “And could you at least _try_ to stop at red lights?”

Ronan just grinned. “You’re not gonna have to worry about that today, pal,” he said, grabbing Matthew by the shoulders and turning him around. Matthew’s body fell very still.

Standing in Ronan’s driveway, leaning nonchalantly against the sleek black BMW, was Adam Parrish. His garbage can of a car was parked on the edge of the driveway, careful not to block anybody in, and he was just staring at Ronan and Matthew with this unshielded grin on his face like they were the greatest things he had ever seen.

Ronan felt his own lips smiling stupidly back at him.

Without a word, Ronan reached into his pocket and pulled out his keyring, and he tossed it an a graceful arc across the yard. Adam caught it easily and unlocked the Beemer, sliding into the driver’s seat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ronan did _not_ like the things it did to him.

“Move it,” Ronan said, giving his brother a good-natured shove. “Don’t wanna be late.” He made his way around to the passenger seat and climbed in, and a moment later he heard one of the back doors open as Matthew got in as well.

Ronan had been expecting Adam to be all business, just quickly and efficiently driving to school without a word to either Lynch brother, but instead Adam turned around as soon as Matthew was settled in the backseat. “Hey, little Lynch,” he said, and Matthew grinned. “Whatcha got there?”

Matthew was holding his breakfast in between his teeth as he buckled up. “Irish shortbread,” he answered, but it came out more like _Irishortbreh_. 

“What do I gotta do to get one of those tomorrow?” Adam’s accent was blooming, drawing every word out an extra syllable, and Ronan got the impression it was more or less on purpose.

Matthew reached a free hand up to grab the food and smiled wider. “You’re driving us again?” he asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

Adam nodded. “Yep,” he said, slapping a hand idly against the steering wheel.

Matthew’s gaze slid between Adam and Ronan with poorly-disguised curiosity. “What, are you Ronan’s boyfriend or something?”

Ronan paused. Oh, shit.

Adam, on the other hand, was perfectly calm. “Yeah, actually,” he said with a relaxed smile. 

Matthew’s grin somehow broadened; it looked borderline painful. He reached a hand out to Adam and said, clearly quite pleased, “I’m Matthew.”

Adam shook his hand with a chuckle. “Adam Parrish,” he said, and when Matthew broke off half his shortbread and offered it to him, Adam took it gratefully. He ate it in one bite, finally started the BMW, and then glanced over at Ronan.

“I think he likes me,” Adam whispered, and Ronan rolled his eyes but said nothing. He wasn’t sure he could form a coherent sentence, anyway. He couldn’t even _look_ at Adam behind the wheel of the Beemer for fear of his body doing things it really shouldn’t be doing in front of his younger brother and fake boyfriend. He leaned his head against the window and sighed as they reversed carefully down the driveway. What had he gotten himself _into_?

The cafeteria at Aglionby was one of Ronan’s least favorite places in the entire world. It was a combination of every single thing he hated about his school: migraine-inducing fluorescent lighting; cracked and yellowing linoleum; uncomfortable chairs with uneven legs and tables with peeling plastic coating; crooked posters with messy paint proclaiming _PLAY TRYOUTS_ and _STUDENT COUNCIL SIGN-UPS!_ ; and, worst of all, over a hundred students chattering away about inconsequential shit and staring. Staring at Ronan and Adam.

To be fair, it was kind of the point. If everyone was paying attention to them, they were doing something right. But that didn’t mean Ronan wasn’t allowed to imagine himself putting his fist through someone’s face.

He was lucky, so _supremely_ lucky, that he wasn’t carrying anything. He was so fucking lucky, because when Adam stuck his hand in Ronan’s back pocket, Ronan’s entire body did this weird thing where it got hot and cold at the same time and all of his muscles just stopped working and he was only still upright by the sheer grace of God. His entire face flushed bright pink and it was all he could do not to scowl. 

Adam, the fucker, seemed perfectly unaffected by everything. He used the placement of his hand to twirl Ronan around until they were chest-to-chest, the entire room gaping at them, and then he slid a hand into his own pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper that said _LYNCH♡_ in Adam’s loopy handwriting. Ronan made a show of taking the note and twitching the corners of his mouth in what he hoped looked something like a smile before shoving it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“I’ll be right back,” Adam said with a soft smile before turning and walking deeper into the jungle that was Aglionby’s cafeteria. Ronan froze for a second. Was he supposed to wait for Adam? Was he supposed to find a place to sit? Fuck that. He was leaving.

He had made it through the cafeteria doors and approximately five feet down the hallway before a small body was intercepting him and shoving him into an empty classroom.

“Hello to you too, maggot,” said Ronan, his voice as close to fond as it ever was. He heard the soft _click_ of the door closing behind them and sat on top of a desk, smirking at Blue where she stood by the door with her arms crossed.

“Adam _Parrish_?” she hissed, like his name was the most offensive thing about him. “You’re insane. You’re actually insane. Do you realize how in _sane_ this is?”

Ronan just stretched an arm across his chest until he felt his shoulder pop. “No, but by all means, do tell.” He switched arms.

“I thought you liked Gans—” Blue's voice cut off as Ronan’s gaze sharpened. She tried again. “Since when have you had a boner for Adam _Parrish_?”

“Hmmm,” hummed Ronan, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I seem to remember a time not so long ago when _you_ had a boner for Adam _Parrish_.” He emphasized Adam’s last name in the same way that Blue did, albeit with a much more mocking tone. “What, am I not allowed to like him?”

“He plays lacrosse!” said Blue incredulously, like this one simple fact should make Ronan reconsider their entire relationship. She said it in the same way she might say _He’s a Republican!_ or _He’s a flat-earther!_

Like it was something worth breaking up over. Ronan was afraid to tell her that he thought lacrosse was kind of hot.

“I play tennis,” he said instead, drumming his fingers idly on the desktop. “I don’t think I have any room to talk.”

Blue huffed, her eyes narrowed to slits. “What does _Declan_ think about it?” She said the name _Declan_ in the same way she might say _the IRS_ or _the FDA_. Like he was somebody unpleasant with a large amount of authority over Ronan’s life. 

That was fair enough.

“Actually,” Ronan drawled, pointedly looking away, “I haven’t told him yet.”

Declan called at 6:30 on the dot, just like he said he would.

“Ronan,” he said appraisingly as soon as the image on the screen cleared. “I feel like we haven’t talked in forever.”

He felt like that because they hadn’t. Ronan had been avoiding Declan’s calls and texts and Facetimes and emails quite deliberately, afraid of how to explain to his brother that he was dating — _fake_ dating — Adam Parrish in an effort to convince Gansey — Declan’s _first love_ Gansey — that Ronan was not in love with him when he, in fact, was. 

It was too messy. It was a lot easier to pretend to be busy whenever Declan wanted to talk.

“Yeah,” Ronan said with a nervous laugh. He was sitting in his bed, fully clothed and on top of the comforter, with his laptop in his lap. 

Declan raised an eyebrow. His hair was mussed, which was strange for Declan, and his eyes looked tired. “So,” he said slowly, “tell me everything.”

Ronan clicked his teeth together twice. “Well, you know, not a lot going on. Tonight I’m makin’ cupcakes for Matthew’s bake sale tomorrow.”

“No,” said Declan disapprovingly. He shook his head. “No, do brownies. They’re easier.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “ _Well_ , I already got all the stuff for cupcakes, so.”

“So,” repeated Declan, looking slightly annoyed and more than slightly offended. He shook his head like he was trying to get rid of some mean thought, and then schooled his features until he looked appropriately boring once more. “So… have you seen Gansey around?”

Ronan opened his mouth, forgot what he was going to say, shut it, tried again. “What? No. No? Why? Why would I — I mean, why would I be seeing Gansey? I have — I’m — Shit, sorry, D, those cupcakes aren’t gonna bake themselves. I gotta — I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, alright? Love you. Bye.” He slammed his laptop shut and then pressed his palms to his eyes till his vision went white. Fuck. Fuck. He was fucked.

Ronan slid his laptop across the bed and stood, stretched, headed downstairs. The cupcakes really _did_ have to be baked, and he had to make a proper fuckton. In the kitchen, he donned one of Aurora’s aprons — white with pink frills and the words _MADE WITH LOVE_ stitched across the chest — and got to work. He hadn’t even begun to mix the first bowl of batter, however, before there was a knock at the front door. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered as he stomped out of the kitchen and down the hallway. He reached the entryway and ripped the door open without looking out the window first, and found himself immediately regretting that decision, because by God, there was Adam Parrish on his front step, wearing a clean baseball tea and a huge shit-eating grin.

“Hey, Lynch,” said Adam, his smile positively wicked. “I like this look.” He took a second to fully check Ronan out, head-to-toe, and then met his gaze again with a smirk that sent a shiver down Ronan’s spine. And then his hand was reaching out toward Ronan’s face, his thumb brushing across the sharp lines of Ronan’s cheekbone. “Got some flour right here,” he mumbled, his accent making Ronan’s heart do a triple backflip. He let the calloused pad of his thumb press against Ronan’s blushing skin for just a second too long, then pulled away and wiped his hand on his thigh. “I got it.”

Ronan couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t _think_. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was so fucking _fucked_.

“Well,” Adam said awkwardly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You gonna let me in?”

Ronan blinked. “Right, right,” he said, opening the door and stepping back to allow Adam to cross over the threshold. Adam looked around the entryway with the careful curiosity of a scholar in a sacred place. Like he was studying something ancient and unfamiliar rather than a hallway in a suburban home. Ronan cleared his throat. “What, uh, what are you doing here?”

It was Adam’s turn to be confused. “I’m here to take you to Tad Carruthers’ party,” he said after a second. “It was in — didn’t you read today’s note?”

Ronan had, in fact, _not_ read that day’s note, or any other note, to be honest. While he was sure the notes probably said nice things, they really only served to remind Ronan that his relationship with Adam was completely fake and just a means to make Joseph fuckin’ Kavinsky jealous, and he didn’t care for that shit at all, so every single day, Ronan had come home from school and promptly thrown Adam’s notes in the kitchen garbage.

Instead of saying this, he said, “I can’t go out. I have to make cupcakes for Matthew’s bake sale.”

Adam followed him back into the kitchen and eyed the mess distastefully. “It’s easier to make something you can cut into squares, you know,” he mumbled, leaning against the cabinetry. “Like brownies.” Then he sighed heavily and gave Ronan a look that was probably meant to be pleading, but came out more like a glower. “The parties are in the contract. You _have_ to go.”

Ronan just snorted and picked up the hand mixer. “Sorry, Parrish, but you’re shit out of luck tonight.”

“Who’s shit out of luck?” said Aurora Lynch as she stepped into the kitchen. She was still carrying her purse and wearing her favorite black jacket — Ronan hadn’t heard her arrive home from work, probably due to his conversation with Adam. She smiled at her son, and then turned her loving look on Adam. “Well, if it isn’t Adam Parrish!”

Ronan couldn’t quite remember how or when Adam possibly could have met Aurora, but he wasn’t surprised that she knew him. Aurora was the type of mother who loved every child she met, as was evident by the way she dropped her purse on the counter and embraced Adam in a warm, motherly hug. Adam, to his credit, only hesitated a moment before hugging her back. As he pulled away, Ronan thought he saw something like wistfulness in his eyes, but then Adam blinked and Ronan wasn’t so sure.

“Good to see you again, Doctor Lynch,” said Adam with a bright smile.

Aurora shook her head. “You can call me Aurora,” she said, patting him on the arm as she passed him to hang her purse and jacket on a hook on the wall. “What are you doing here?” It might have been an accusatory question coming from anybody but Aurora, but her tone, like always, was genuine and friendly.

Adam’s eyes flickered to Ronan. “I’m just here to pick up Ronan,” he said carefully, running a hand through his hair. “We’re going to a friend’s party.”

“A friend?” mused Aurora. “Ronan doesn’t have many of those.”

“Mom,” Ronan said through clenched teeth.

“I’m just kidding, dear,” she said, and she stepped around the kitchen island to pull Ronan down and kiss him on the cheek.

Ronan shot Adam a look, just _daring_ him to call Ronan a mama’s boy. He didn’t. Ronan said, “But I can’t go, because I’m making Matthew’s cupcakes.”

Aurora paused, surveyed the damage Ronan had already caused the kitchen. “Nonsense!” she said after a second. “Matthew and I can handle some cupcakes. You go to this party with _Adam_.” Ronan did not care for the meaningful way she said Adam’s name, for the implication that maybe Adam was his boyfriend or a boy he liked. Even if it was maybe-kinda-a-little-bit true.

 _Especially_ because it was maybe-kinda-a-a-little-bit true.

“Fine,” Ronan gritted, wiping his hands on the apron. “I’ll go get changed.” He stomped out of the room.

Adam followed him back out into the hallway. “Wait up, Lynch,” he said with a smile in his voice. Ronan paused but didn’t turn. “You forgot this.” And then Adam, Adam _fucking _Parrish, was untying the strings on the apron, his fingertips brushing against Ronan’s shirt and the small of his back.__

__“I’ll hang this up for ya,” Adam breathed, pulling the loop over Ronan’s head. Ronan was still facing away from Adam, his iceberg eyes fixed determinedly on a framed picture on the wall, his face daylily pink. Adam’s hands brushed against the pale skin of Ronan’s neck, the shell of his ear, the crown of his head. Ronan was going to pass out. He was going to die. He was going to go to Hell._ _

__“Thanks,” he muttered, turning abruptly toward the stairs. He took them two at a time. Behind him, he thought maybe, just _maybe_ , he heard Adam swearing under his breath._ _

__

__Tad Carruthers had a bigger house than Ronan._ _

__This didn’t bother Ronan, it just surprised him. The Lynches were one of the more well-to-do families in Henrietta, and Ronan was one of the more well-to-do students at Aglionby, so he had expected Tad’s house to be nice, but not Lynch-nice. He had _not_ been expecting four fucking stories of expensive interior design and gawky teenagers._ _

__Adam had driven them there in Ronan’s car, and without Matthew in the vehicle, Ronan had allowed himself to stare more openly at Adam. Granted, he still looked away guiltily every time Adam’s eyes slid to him at a red light, but whatever. Ronan had gotten an eyeful of Adam driving the BMW with the sort of ease and comfort people rarely showed behind the wheel of a stick shift._ _

__It was not enough._ _

__“I’m not gonna crash your car,” Adam had said the third time he caught Ronan staring at him. “And if I do, I’ll just fix it. I’m a mechanic, you know.”_ _

__Which, no. Ronan had _not_ known that. He let himself take a moment to picture Adam in a pair of gasoline-stained coveralls, realized the image would be the actual, literal death of him, and then pushed it aside._ _

__Tad’s front door was closed, but there were teenagers throwing up in his shrubbery, and the thud of bass was so violent that it gave even Ronan pause — Ronan, the _king_ of aggressive, earsplitting music. He stopped in his tracks a few feet from the door, and Adam had his hand on the doorknob before he noticed._ _

__“Come on,” Adam said, turning around and walking back across the porch to Ronan. His voice was a little more gentle than it had any right to be. “It’s in the contract. You gotta.” Ronan continued to hesitate, and Adam took his hand, slid their fingers together. “It’s gonna be fine, let’s go.”_ _

__“I fuckin’ hate Tad Carruthers,” Ronan mumbled. Adam barked out a laugh._ _

__“Yeah, me too.” His eyes traced down the lines of Ronan’s forearms and locked in on where Ronan was twisting his leather bracelets around his arm again and again. To be honest, he hadn’t even realized he was doing it till Adam noticed, but it made sense. It was his nervous habit; Adam touched his hair, Ronan touched the leather bands on his wrist._ _

__“Nope,” Adam said softly, stilling Ronan’s hand. He slowly slid a couple of the bands down Ronan’s arm, over their joined hands, and onto his own wrist. “There we go.”_ _

__Ronan swallowed hard._ _

__“Oh, wait!” Adam pulled his phone out of his pocket and lifted it up, pointed the camera at Ronan. “Smile,” he said. Ronan just glared. Adam snapped the picture anyway. “Now, make me your background.”_ _

__“The fuck you talkin’ about, Parrish?” Ronan said, not maliciously. Reluctantly, he slid his own phone out of the pocket of his jacket and pointed it in Adam’s general direction. Adam grinned at the camera, and it was a nice smile for a picture, but it wasn’t the lazy, relaxed smile that Ronan preferred. He took the picture and made it his background, feeling very foolish about the entire ordeal._ _

__“Alright,” Adam said after a beat, taking Ronan’s hand again. “Let’s go in.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you had half has much fun reading this chapter as I had writing it. As always, you're more than welcome to come interact with me on Tumblr, I'm @wespers :) Thank you for reading!


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is not nearly long enough to justify the three decades between updates, and i'm really sorry, but this was seriously as much as i could possibly stretch it out. i hope you enjoy!

It took Ronan exactly three seconds to decide that he hated parties.

He would have given it a chance, really, if it weren’t for the way that Adam’s entire body seemed to tense up the moment they were over the threshold. His grip on Ronan’s hand tightened, his shoulders went stiff, and his jaw clenched as if he were staring down the barrel of a gun rather than entering a high-school house party that _he_ had made the choice to attend. Ronan could not find it in himself to be annoyed, though — the only emotion he could muster was _concerned_.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, raising an eyebrow, but Adam just ignored him. They moved deeper into the party, Adam nodding wordlessly in greeting toward people who called out his name, Ronan glaring at anybody who dared make eye contact with him. Somebody clapped Adam on the shoulder as they passed, and he physically flinched; Ronan squeezed his hand in a way he hoped was comforting. Adam turned and shot him a grateful smile.

“Parrish!” Tad Carruthers exclaimed as soon as they were in his line of sight. He took a second to scowl at Ronan, then turned his gaze back to Adam. “You made it!”

Adam smiled, tight-lipped and polite. “Said I would,” he said with a nod. “I never miss a party.”

“Lucky for me!” Tad said, grinning, and _oh_. Ronan understood. Tad liked Adam. Like, _like-liked_ Adam. Of fucking course he did. Well, that settled it. Ronan was going to play that up for sure. Not like he had anything better to do, anyway.

He started by letting go of Adam’s hand, which earned him a curious, possibly sad, sideways glance from the boy, but then he wrapped his arm around Adam’s waist and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and a surprised, open-mouthed grin. Across the room, Tad’s eyes narrowed and his ears went red as he took a long drag from the joint between his fingers. Ronan considered it a win-win.

The side of Adam’s body that was pressed against Ronan seemed to relax for a few seconds, just warm and soft and surprisingly comfortable, until the moment that Ronan leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “You didn’t tell me Tad had the hots for you, too, Parrish,” he muttered, and Adam immediately tensed, froze, and then pulled away. He didn’t move far; just a side-step out of Ronan’s grasp. Ronan tried not to take it too personally.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” said Adam, his smile as strained as if he were still making conversation with Carruthers. It was all Ronan could do to watch, helpless, as Adam slipped into the crowd of people blocking their view of the kitchen.

Adam was gone for less than ten seconds before Tad was calling out again, his voice just a little too friendly to actually be genuine. “Hey, Lynch,” he yelled above the music, waving one hand in an invitational gesture. “Come sit with us.”

Sitting with Carruthers and whoever had been coerced into keeping him company was just about the last thing that Ronan wanted to do, but he thought it might give him another opportunity to pour some salt in Tad’s wounds, so he found himself moving across the room to join the other boy by the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. It wasn’t until it was much too late to turn around that Ronan realized what a mistake he had made.

Tad Carruthers was sitting on the arm of a couch, one leg pulled up to his chest, and sprawled out across the cushions was Joseph fuckin’ Kavinsky, smiling like he was about to eat Ronan whole. He twisted around till there was room for Ronan to sit beside him, more of a dare than an invitation, but Ronan Lynch was not one to back down from a challenge. He threw himself down between the two boys and leaned his head back haughtily.

“So,” Carruthers began without hesitation, leaning in toward Ronan in a way that made him uncomfortable. “You and Parrish? The hell is that?”

“Oh, don’t do that, man,” said Kavinsky, arching an eyebrow at Tad across Ronan’s profile. “You don’t wanna scare Lynch off. He’s shy.” He patted Ronan’s knee condescendingly. They both laughed; Ronan bared his teeth.

“Whaddya wanna know?” he sneered, directing his glare at Kavinsky even though it had been Carruthers to ask the question.

Kavinsky’s returning look was thirty different shades of evil. “Everything,” he said, taking a sip from the red solo cup in his hands. “When? Tell me you weren’t fucking my boyfriend while I was.”

Ronan laughed, cold and humorless, and shook his head. “I think we both know Parrish prefers to be on top.”

It was nothing more than a guess, a shot in the dark, but one glance at Kavinsky told Ronan that he was right. He tried desperately not to let his mind take that information and run with it, and then Kavinsky was speaking again, albeit through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing with him,” he growled, deliberately looking away from Ronan, “but I hope you have fun while it lasts. It’s only a matter of time before he comes crawling back to me.”

Okay, fake relationship or not, Ronan felt offended on Adam’s behalf. Kavinsky was a fucking tool, and Adam was too damn smart for this shit, and he deserved better. Ronan rolled his eyes, stood up, and turned just long enough to let Kavinsky and Carruthers see his snarl. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

He managed three steps before nearly running straight into Adam. “Oh,” said Adam, stepping back just before they could bang noses. Something dark sloshed over the lip of the cup he held in his right hand, and he furrowed his brow at it. “Shit.” Glanced up at Ronan. “Sorry.”

“‘S my bad,” Ronan said with a shrug, intercepting one of the cups and taking a long sip. He immediately almost spit the drink out. “The fuck is that?”

“Beer?” said Adam, confused, before his eyes widened. “Oh. No. Sorry. Wrong drink.” He switched the cups they were holding, and Ronan sipped warily at his drink, happy to find that it actually _was_ beer this time, although definitely a cheap (and probably lite) brand.

“No, but really, the hell are you drinkin?” he asked again after a second.

Adam shrugged half-heartedly, taking a sip from his own cup. “Sweet tea.”

In retrospect, of course it was. Ronan wrinkled his nose. “Sweet tea? At a party?”

“I’m driving, remember?” Something about Adam’s demeanor seemed off, like he was anxious or angry about something; Ronan had no idea what it was, but he didn’t like it.

“You alright, Parrish?”

Adam’s eyes flashed. “I’m fine,” he said, tone sharp. “I just — I’m gonna be right back.” Without explanation, he turned and wove through the crowd, disappearing before Ronan could object for the second time that night.

Ronan was alone for less than thirty seconds before he heard his name being called out behind him. He assumed it was Kavinsky or Carruthers again and armed himself with a sharklike grin, but when he turned around, he was pleased to find it was not either boy he had expected; it was Noah Czerny.

“Ronan!” he called out again, smiling languidly. He was leaning against the wall talking to somebody whose face Ronan couldn’t quite make out, both their figures shrouded in smoke from Noah’s joint. Ronan slurped down half his beer, shoved a hand into his pocket, and meandered over, coming to stand awkwardly between Noah and his companion and angling his face toward the fresher air of the room.

“You know Ronan?” Noah said to his friend, jerking his head in Ronan’s direction. The boy turned, and when the light hit his face Ronan finally recognized him: Henry Cheng.

“Of course!” Cheng said, smiling easily. He was swaying slightly on his fet, his grip loose around a mostly-full cup. “We have, uh, you know, chemistry.”

Noah smirked and turned a knowing look at Ronan, who just scowled. “Physics,” Ronan corrected before downing the rest of his drink. He took Henry’s drink and downed it, too. Henry just leaned sideways against the wall, too far gone to protest.

“I didn’t know you came to parties,” said Noah after a second.

Ronan snorted. “I don’t.”

“You and Parrish, huh?” The non-sequitur didn’t phase Ronan. “I have to say, I’m surprised.” Noah took a long drag.

Ronan made a face, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Why’s that?”

Conspiratorially, Noah leaned in, accidentally exhaling a large puff of smoke right in Ronan’s face. “Maybe because you sent me a love letter?”

“Oh. Well. I sent one to Parrish, too.”

Noah laughed at that, loud and carefree. “Damn, Lynch, you’re a player. Did anyone else get one? Henry, here, maybe?”

Ronan could feel himself blushing. He wanted another drink. “Nah, just Gansey,” he said, and he reached out to grab Noah’s drink and finish it, too.

Noah was laughing so hard that he didn’t even notice Ronan steal his cup. “Gansey?” he gasped, nearly doubling over. He let himself fall over against the wall. “Like, your brother’s boyfriend, Gansey?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” muttered Ronan, just making Noah laugh louder. “Not that it’s your business.”

Finally, Noah managed to calm himself. “No, I guess it isn’t,” he wheezed, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth sloppily. He finally realized that Ronan had snatched his beer. “Hey!” he said, grabbing for the cup, and then gazing wistfully at it once he realized it was empty. 

“So where is Mr. Parrish?” Henry suddenly asked. He had been so quiet that Ronan had practically forgotten he was there.

“Oh, he’s—” Ronan realized he didn’t know.

As if on cue, Adam appeared at his side. “Hey,” he said, wrapping his arm against Ronan. Ronan went very still. “Oh. Hey, Czerny. Cheng.”

“Adam,” Henry said cheerfully, knocking knuckles with him. “Ronan here was just telling us—”

“It’s good to see you, man,” Noah interrupted, also bumping fists with Adam. Jesus, was Adam friends with _everyone_? “You ready for the game tomorrow?”

Adam chuckled. “Ready as ever,” he said good-naturedly before turning to Ronan. “Hey, wanna get out of here?”

Ronan felt himself blushing again. “Uh, yeah,” he said, a touch more genuine than he meant to sound. He could tell that he was practically making heart-eyes at Adam, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Without even looking at Noah and Henry, he told them, “See ya later.”

“Later,” Henry slurred, slumping against the wall once more.

Noah’s voice was suggestive. “Have a good night, you two.”

Adam just smiled and turned, leading Ronan through the crowd with practiced ease. He didn’t stop to talk to the people who called out to him, just nodded and continued moving. Ronan appreciated it; he did not want to have to spend a second longer in that place than absolutely necessary.

As soon as they passed through the front door and emerged onto the open porch, Adam breathed in deeply, as if he were sucking in oxygen for the first time that night. For a second, his steps faltered, and he seemed to lose his balance. Then, just as quickly, he was fine, smiling at Ronan and making his way down the street to where they had parked the Beemer as if nothing had happened.

He slid into the driver's seat with ease, as if he had been driving the Beemer every day of his life, and Ronan got in on the other side and watched him. Adam did not buckle in, nor did he shut his door. He didn’t even put the key in the ignition. He just sat there, head leaned back on the headrest, and drummed his hands against the steering wheel for several moments. Ronan was just opening his mouth to ask if he was okay when he began to speak.

“I’m deaf in my left ear,” Adam said, very quietly. He was not looking at Ronan. “So loud places can be overwhelming sometimes. And when people touch me suddenly, it — it catches me off guard.” He was carefully avoiding words like _scares_ or _frightens_ , like he could not stand the idea of somebody knowing he was a human being who felt emotions like fear. “And if you whisper in my left ear, I’m not going to be able to hear it.”

Oh. Adam hadn’t been ignoring him, earlier; he genuinely hadn’t heard. Ronan felt shame twisting inside of him. _What happened to you?_ he wanted to ask. Adam was obviously expecting that question, bracing himself for it, and he looked so pained and sick that Ronan couldn’t say it. Instead, he asked, “So why do you go to these things, then?”

The tension in the car lessened; Adam deflated slightly. “Appearances, I guess,” he said with a weak shrug. “I’m expected to be here, so I’m here. I never stay long. It’s fine.” 

It wasn’t a good enough answer, and it obviously was not fine, but Ronan was not in the mood to argue. “Have you eaten?” was what he decided to go with, trying to keep his voice devoid of worry or concern.

For some reason, Adam laughed. “No,” he said, lowering his gaze from the ceiling to the steering wheel. He tapped the index finger of his right hand lightly to a beat Ronan didn’t recognize.

“Then let’s get something to eat,” suggested Ronan, and he saw Adam smirk.

“Nino’s?”

“Nino’s.”

This time, they sat at a secluded booth in the very back, across from each other and leaning against the wall. The few customers that were still in the diner were seated on the other side of the room, hardly even visible from where Ronan sat, and he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying the privacy.

“Your boots,” Adam was saying through a mouthful of french fries. “Remember that day when K was being a dick about your boots?”

Ronan rolled his eyes, taking a disdainful drink of milkshake. He was not in the mood to be thinking about Kavinsky. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat.

“I couldn’t say anything, ‘cause I was dating him and shit, but I like ‘em.” Adam dabbed at his bottom lip with a napkin. “They’re kinda hot.”

“Hot?” Ronan choked out, turning bright red. He set his milkshake down with more force than he meant to. “What?”

Adam just grinned. “You heard me, Lynch. I like your style. K’s, like, cute, you know, but you’re sexy. You’ve got the whole bad-boy-bloody-knuckles-could-definitely-kill-you thing going on. It suits you.”

For a second, Ronan couldn’t even speak. _Sexy?_ Did Adam just call him _sexy?_ He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go away; in fact, it expanded when he noticed the pink tinge of a blush on Adam’s cheekbones. They made eye contact, and then Ronan looked down quickly, but not before noticing the upturn of Adam’s lips.

“He just…” Adam started, then sighed. Shook his head, stared down at where his hands turned his water cup in circles on the table. “He just pisses me off. The entire time we were dating, he was always blowing me off to go do random shit, and he, he, he—” His voice broke off to give way for a frustrated groan. “He cheated on me, and then dumped me, but now he’s blowing up my phone?”

Ronan ground his jaw. “He cheated on you?” he said, trying and failing to keep his voice neutral.

Adam’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. And then he left me for the dude. But now, he won’t stop texting.”

“Are you texting him back?”

Adam furrowed his brows as he shook his head again. “No. No, I’ll probably just call him when I get home, or something.”

Ronan froze. “Why would you call him?”

The way that Adam shrugged made it obvious he knew he shouldn’t have brought it up to begin with. “I dunno, we just… talk… sometimes.”

Ronan could feel his anger threatening to spill out of him, but he did his very best to contain it. “How often is ‘sometimes?’”

Adam finally looked up. “Every couple of days, I guess,” he said softly, drumming his fingers across the laminate tabletop. Ronan made a face, and Adam sighed. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

Adam blinked, unimpressed. “You’re judging me. Just say it.”

Humming thoughtfully, Ronan leaned back against the leather cushion of the booth. “It’s fuckin’ weird that you still talk to your ex-boyfriend on the phone. And that’s coming from me.”

A hurt look crossed Adam’s face and disappeared just as quickly. “You’ve never had a boyfriend,” he said, stony. “You wouldn’t get it.”

It was Ronan’s turn to feel hurt. “Well, Parrish, you’ve only had, what, one boyfriend? And you’re basically obsessed with him, to the point where you’re in a fake fuckin’ relationship to try and win him back, so. Excuse me if I don’t consider you the ultimate authority on relationship norms.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re opinionated?”

“Has anybody ever told you the truth?”

Adam leaned forward, and Ronan couldn’t tell if he was angry or offended or just having fun. “Okay, if we’re going for the truth, tonight, Lynch, then riddle me this: why have you never been in a relationship?”

At this, Ronan finally paused. He leaned forward as well, crossing his arms and leaning them against the edge of the table. “I’m not exactly a hot commodity,” he said, gritting his teeth. 

Adam barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit. That’s bullshit. I can name half a dozen guys who have asked you out in the last year alone, and you said no to each and every one of them. You can lie to yourself, Lynch, but don’t try it with me.”

“Why are you paying so much attention to my dating life?”

“ _What_ dating life?” asked Adam incredulously. “Seriously, dude, just tell me. No secrets. This thing is way too complicated for secrets between us, too.”

 _Us_. Ronan’s heart was beating too fast. Adam called him sexy. Adam was keeping tabs on his love life. Adam thought they were an _us_. It was too much and it was not enough and he felt a desperate need to tell the truth. Or, at least, some of it.

“I’m afraid,” Ronan admitted, his voice a snarl. “Is that what you want me to say, Parrish? I’m fucking — it’s — love is this great fuckin’ thing, right? Every book, every movie, every song — it’s all about love. Even if you don’t think it is, it is. Everything is about love, and I, I, I — I have all this love inside of me. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’ve got so much fucking love, it doesn’t even make _sense_ , and I don’t want to just give it away. I don’t want to just let somebody have it when they don’t want it. When they’re just gonna ruin it. I’m afraid. You happy?”

Adam was silent for such a long time that Ronan was honestly afraid of how he would respond. When he did finally open his mouth, his voice was quiet, resigned. “Why?” he asked, timidly, without looking up from the table. Like he already knew the answer, but he thought Ronan should say it anyway.

Ronan shrugged with one shoulder, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. “The more people you let into your life,” he said slowly, “the more people can just walk right out.”

Before his father had died, Ronan had been so carefree and open and vulnerable. He had let the world take parts of him and trusted it to bring them back; he had given freely and with a smile on his face. Nothing had frightened him, nothing had angered him, nothing had broken him. He had been happy, and lovely, and fearless. Soft and unbroken. Free and wild.

Now, he was something else entirely. A very different type of wild.

Adam did not say, _like your father_ , although everyone in Henrietta knew the story of Niall Lynch’s murder, knew that Ronan had found his body. Instead, he said, just as steadily and slowly as Ronan’s confession, “I live by myself. I don’t live with my parents anymore. I moved out over the summer.”

This was not information Ronan had possessed, and he felt himself frowning as he looked up. Adam was staring at him, pensive and unreadable. “Why?” asked Ronan.

Adam just gave him a small, mirthless smile. “Sometimes, being left behind is for your own good.”

It wasn’t a real answer and they both knew it, but Ronan didn’t push. He just sighed, leaned his head forward till it was resting on his forearms. He could feel Adam watching him still, but he didn’t look up.

They were both quiet for what could have been minutes and could have been hours, until Adam said, for reasons unknown, “So, you’re scared of letting people into your life, but you don’t seem very scared of me.”

Ronan lifted his head slowly, raising an eyebrow as if to say _And what about it?_ “Why would I be scared of you?”

Adam just tilted his head, sipped at the cup of water in front of him. Ronan suddenly understood.

He didn’t like saying it, but he said it anyway. “It’s fake. It’s not real. None of this is real.” The words were cold and bitter in his mouth.

It wasn’t until Adam’s face became expressionless that Ronan realized he had looked honest and vulnerable, wasn’t until his eyes flashed to stone that Ronan understood they had been genuine. And then Adam was standing up, smiling one of those smiles that doesn’t reach the eyes, pulling a couple bills from his wallet and tossing them down on the table. “Ah, I almost forgot. Of course,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the table twice as he began to walk away, “you’re Ronan Lynch. You are honest to a fault, aren’t you?”

“Wait,” Ronan said, sliding out of the booth gracelessly. “Parrish.” Adam did not slow down as he said a polite _goodnight, ma’am_ to the waitress behind the counter and strode out the door, holding it open for Ronan without looking at him. “Parrish. Are we cool?”

Adam unlocked the Beemer and climbed inside, twisting the key in the ignition before Ronan had even wrenched the door open. “We’re fine, Lynch,” he said neutrally as the engine roared to life. He buckled in and then put the car in reverse, barely glancing over his shoulder as he maneuvered out of the spot. With extreme focus, he switched geers and peeled out of the nearly-empty parking lot. “We’re cool. Thanks for comin’ to the party.” There was his accent, honey-sweet and warm as a summer afternoon, but it did little to soften the sharpness of his gaze, to downplay the tension in his shoulders. 

The drive home was short and silent, Adam’s movements unconvincingly calm and fluid. He was only ever this cool, this collected, this confident, when he was angry or hurt — even Ronan knew this much. Adam pulled the Beemer easily up the driveway, right to the spot where he found it every morning, and turned the car off without a word. He was unbuckled and out of his seat before Ronan even registered that he was home.

“Parrish,” he called out as he opened his door, but it was too late; Adam was already in his car, reversing expertly, one hand comfortably on the top of his worn steering wheel and his back turned on Ronan.

“Fuck,” Ronan breathed, leaning against his car heavily. “Fuck.”

Ronan was only in his bedroom long enough to kick off one boot before he heard his phone chime. He kicked off the other boot, threw himself down on his bed, and then slid the phone free of his pocket. There was exactly one notification: he had been tagged in a photo on Instagram by @adam.parrish. Ronan raised an eyebrow, braced himself, and opened it.

It was actually a good picture, although Ronan had no idea who had taken it, or when. It was definitely from the party, although their red cups had been cropped out; judging from the way Adam’s arm was slung around Ronan, their fond smiles, the slight angle, it must have been taken by Henry or Noah. Sneaky bastards. He scrolled to look at the caption.

_It’s you and me, there’s nothing like this._

Ronan couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He liked the photo and immediately opened iMessage, typing out his text to Adam in record time. _Taylor Swift lyrics? Seriously?_

Adam texted back almost immediately. _I refuse to be made to feel bad about captioning a photo with Taylor Swift lyrics by somebody who recognized said lyrics instantly_.

Ronan just laughed. He did not have a real rebuttal for that, and so he did not attempt to come up with one. Instead, he just hooked his phone up to his Bluetooth speaker and played Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince on repeat until he fell asleep, still in his jeans and muscle tee, warm and happy underneath his duvet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, i hope you liked it! as always, you can come talk to me on tumblr, i'm @wespers :)


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been a minute since i updated, whoops. i hope you're all doing well and staying safe, and i hope you enjoy this chapter! just for the record, this chapter does not exist in any form in TATBILB (the book or the movie) nor does it have anything to do with TRC - i just needed to write it. i can't explain why. it just had to be here. so. enjoy.

In retrospect, agreeing to attend Adam’s lacrosse games had been an exceptionally bad decision on Ronan’s part.

It wasn’t just bad because he had to attend alone, although that was torture in and of itself. He had asked Matthew to come, but Matthew, being the spectacularly popular middle-schooler that he was, had opted to follow through with some plans he had made with friends, supposedly. Blue had had the courage to laugh loudly and viciously right in Ronan’s face when he asked her to accompany him, which was well-deserved, but still. He did not want to go alone. He did not want to go at all, honestly, but he had made a promise, and he’d be damned if he was actually going to break that promise.

Adam had, in all fairness, told him that he didn’t have to come. “ _It’s an away game, Lynch, it’s almost a two-hour drive, I’m not gonna subject you to that, contract or no contract. You don’t need to sacrifice an entire Saturday in the name of a fake relationship. You’re gonna hate it, anyway._ ” It had been genuine, really, Adam had _meant_ for Ronan to stay home, but, well. It had also come out as a challenge. And who was Ronan to turn down a challenge? 

There was catharsis to be found, anyway, in the two-hour drive. Even if Ronan wasn’t the best driver, he did _enjoy_ driving, loved nothing more than to spend all that time alone behind the wheel of his precious Beemer, alternating between blasting agonizing electronica and driving in complete and utter silence. The least enjoyable thing about it was the destination: a bourgeois, futuristic, asshole-factory of a high school that was closer to Washington, D.C. than Ronan could comfortably come. 

So there he was, alone in the crowded bleachers, and it was hot. Like, _hot_ hot. Early fall in Virginia was roughly equal to the dead of summer in most of the country when it came to temperature, and that Saturday was no exception. It had to be well above ninety degrees, and the bleachers were made of metal because _of course_ , and Ronan was alone and wearing a black t-shirt and black skinny jeans and black combat boots because he was _Ronan_ , and all-in-all, it was going to be a miserable day, except. Except.

Except.

Except Adam was taking the field, and it shouldn’t have been _possible_ for anybody to be attractive in a lacrosse uniform, because lacrosse uniforms were objectively the worst outfits ever _invented_ , but Jesus God, did Adam look good. It hadn’t occurred to Ronan until right then, not really, that Adam was an attractive person, but once the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t get rid of it.

Adam Parrish was hot.

Maybe not stereotypically hot. Maybe he wasn’t built like Chris Evans or whatever, but he was, obviously, a pretty good-looking guy. He was tall and slender, but his muscles were definitely toned by years of lacrosse and physical labor. His shoulders were the perfect width, and Ronan felt foolish thinking that, because he had never thought about the width of a person’s shoulders in his entire life, but there was no denying that Adam’s shoulders were perfect. His skin was gloriously tanned, too, also from a mixture of his athletic endeavors and working outside. His face was mostly hidden by the ridiculous face-coverings lacrosse-players wore — _really, you’d think this was a_ real _sport, like hockey_ — but that was okay, because Ronan had it memorized: his dark, bushy eyebrows, usually arched sarcastically; his tropical blue eyes that always seemed to be twinkling with mischief; the strong line of his nose; his lovely, high cheekbones; his prominent cupid’s bow resting just above his full, pink lips; his straight white teeth, perfect without a dentist’s interference. And then there was his hair, dark and floppy with sweat at the moment but usually lighter and just a little wavy and combed carefully into place. 

Oh, no. Ronan was extraordinarily _fucked_. 

He was lucky in that lacrosse was not a particularly sexy sport no matter how you framed it; he was unlucky in that there was _some_ part of him, buried however deeply, that was feral enough to enjoy the sight of Adam shoving up against boys nearly twice his size and actually managing to push them out of his way. It was a strange thought, Adam Parrish playing a contact sport, Adam Parrish knocking people aside with no qualm, but it also made a strange amount of sense. Whereas Ronan preferred to get his physical contact either through affection or fist-fights, Adam seemed to like to receive his bluntly, in a controlled environment. It was in-character, really.

It was obvious that Adam was first-string, or whatever they called the starting players in lacrosse; fuck if Ronan knew. He moved across the field like he knew every single blade of grass like the back of his hand, like he _owned_ the field, the stadium, the entire goddamn city block. It was confidence turned on its side — not quite _arrogance_ , because, really, did Adam Parrish have it in him to be _arrogant_? — but deeper than confidence, stronger and more eternal. This was not something that could be taken from him. It was not something that could change suddenly. It was as integral to his existence as his brilliance, his wit, his fucking _heart_. Ronan wanted, hysterically, to touch it, this untouchable thing that made Adam _Adam_. He clenched his hands into fists.

The game seemed to drag on forever. Ronan did not understand the rules and regulations of lacrosse very well (see: at all), and he couldn’t tell any of the players apart except for Adam, whom his eyes tracked every second of the game. Adam whose jersey proudly proclaimed him “PARRISH, 01.” Because of _course_ Adam Parrish was number fucking one. It would have been a larger shock to find out he was literally any other number. If lacrosse had specific positions that different team members played, like offense or defense, Ronan could not figure it out, but he did notice that Adam seemed to be less likely to initiate physical contact with the other players — he was better at feinting and sneaking and darting to wherever he needed to be, didn’t need to ram into his opponents like some teammates — and he seemed to linger near the edges of the field, although that may have just been a personal preference. 

It was also interesting to see how, when one player did something that made the crowd cheer, they would bump chests with their teammates or get patted on the back. Not Adam, though; when he made what must have been a good throw or a great catch, and the crowd roared his name, nobody touched him. Nobody bumped hips with him or gave him one-armed hugs. It was like he didn’t like to be touched unless it was in sport, which. Hm. That was interesting.

Not as interesting, though, as Adam’s face when he was sent to the sidelines and he tore off his helmet-thing. His hair was so wet he might have just stepped out of the shower, and his eyes were bright, brighter than Ronan had ever seen them, and sweat was dripping down every line of his face like rain. It was decidedly unattractive — _nobody_ could look _that_ good sweaty — except that Adam looked _that good_ sweaty. It was awful. He should have been disgusting, like any _normal_ person would be when they were That Sweaty, but no. Not Adam Parrish. Never Adam Parrish, apparently.

And not only was Adam sweaty _and_ beautiful — surely the most unnatural combination Ronan could think of — but he was staring up into the stands, right at Ronan, and he was smiling in this charming, lopsided way that made Ronan’s heart beat straight out of its chest. And in case _that_ wasn’t enough, which it very well _was_ , thank you very much, Adam decided at that moment to pop open a Gatorade bottle with his teeth and then waterfall the drink, all while maintaining eye contact. Ronan knew that his face was red, he could feel the blush in every square inch north of the collar of his shirt, but he couldn’t help it. Especially not when Adam lowered the bottle, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in a very sloppy, un-Adam-like manner, and then _winked._

Ronan was dreaming. Surely that was it — it was a dream, an oddly realistic dream — he had had stranger dreams, worse dreams, clearer dreams — he was dreaming, obviously, because there was no way in _hell_ — heaven maybe, but not hell and certainly not Earth — that Adam Parrish was flirting with him — unless it was a game, unless he was screwing with Ronan’s head, in which case _fuck you, Parrish_ — or, well, that was in _any_ case, if Ronan was being perfectly honest — which he always was, because he was Ronan Lynch, honest to a fault — that’s what Adam had said — Adam, genuine Adam, wonderful Adam, he wouldn’t flirt with Ronan unless he meant it, right? 

Ronan was suddenly aware that he was not breathing.

When it was that hot, not breathing felt a lot like breathing, so it was just a moment too late when he noticed; he sucked in a deep breath so quickly and obviously that he couldn’t have imagined the way Adam’s lip quirked up, his eyebrow arched — and oh, Ronan was so _fucked_ , and having air in his lungs didn’t feel much better than not having air in his lungs since the air in question was ninety god damned degrees, and then Adam was on the field again and who cared?

Not that Ronan was any better at following the game in its second half. All he really knew was that Aglionby was ahead, which was good, and Adam seemed to be feeling more aggressive, which was better. He was staying on just the right side of committing a foul, carefully weighing each move and push and toss, and God, Ronan had never been more infatuated in his _life_. Which was saying something, because he seriously put both the _hopeless_ and the _romantic_ in _hopeless romantic._

And there was Adam, hip-checking his way across the field, making moves that Ronan had to assume were the lacrosse-equivalent to scoring goals, and every single time he would do something that made the crowd cheer, he would look up. He would not accept a slap on the shoulders or a bump in the chest from his teammates, but every time, every single time, he would look up and lock eyes with Ronan. Even through the atrocious lacrosse-required headgear, Ronan knew the eye contact was meant exclusively for him.

The game ended abruptly, or at least it felt abrupt to Ronan; but then again, he really hadn’t paid attention to anything that wasn’t Adam, so what did he know? One second Adam had the ball, and then he didn’t, and then the crowd was on its feet and Ronan found himself upright as well, and everyone else was screaming so he also let out a loud whoop. There was a moment where he didn’t even know if Aglionby had won or lost, because his eyes were still trained on Adam, strangely still in the chaos of the field. People were moving all around both of them, but Ronan couldn’t bring himself to look away from the ocean of Adam’s eyes, even for a second. 

And then Adam smiled, a broad, glorious, fearless thing, and Ronan thought _this is what I was waiting for._ He hadn’t even known he had been waiting for it, but by the way his chest felt a thousand times lighter at the sight of it, he knew he had been. For hours, or days, or years — hell, maybe his entire life. But now, he had it. He had that smile, and the world was a beautiful place, and he was filled with the pathological need to see that smile again every day for the rest of his life.

Ronan made his way down the steps of the bleachers quickly and efficiently, although perhaps using more elbow than was strictly necessary. He was just not aware of his movements, not really, because he needed to be at Adam’s side as soon as humanly possible. He needed to be at Adam’s side fucking _yesterday_ , and he needed — he needed — he needed —

“Lynch!”

 _Yes,_ Ronan thought nonsensically. _That._

“Parrish,” Ronan called out in reply, unable to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. He could barely see Adam over the rest of the crowd, except that Adam was standing still in the middle of a tidal wave of people, and he was staring directly at Ronan, who was moving aggressively against the crowd, and how could Ronan not see _that_? How could he not see Adam smiling at him?

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Adam said, his voice still loud to be heard. He seemed to sense that Ronan was going to make a dirty joke before even Ronan realized it, and continued, “Two hour drive, hardly seems worth it.”

“It was worth it.” The words slipped out of Ronan’s mouth before he even knew he was going to say them, and for a fraction of a second he tensed, worried, but then he saw Adam’s smile widen. He knew right then that he would do anything to get that reaction again. “It was a good game. I think.”

Adam’s smile turned into a smirk. “It was,” he confirmed just as Ronan finally reached him. He had taken his helmet off, and he didn’t have it or his stick (or whatever the fuck it was called) anymore. Where he had disposed of them, Ronan would never know, but he couldn’t say that he minded. Unthinkingly, he pulled Adam in for a crushing hug.

Adam froze for a second, and Ronan just had time to think _fuck, shouldn’t have done that_ before Adam’s sweaty face was pressed into the crook of his neck and his sweaty arms were wrapped around Ronan’s waist and his sweaty body was pushed as close to Ronan’s as it could get. 

And then he was pulling away. “You really drove two hours to watch a bunch of sweaty teenage boys throw a ball across a field?” There was something disbelieving in Adam’s voice, and it was strange to hear after watching the confidence that he had played with. Ronan hated it.

“I drove two hours to watch you.”

The tips of Adam’s ears turned pink. “Oh.” It was impossible to tell if it was a good _oh_ or a bad _oh_ , but Ronan didn’t care. Or, at least, he told himself he didn’t care, which was the same thing as not caring, right?

“And now I’m going to drive two more hours.”

Adam’s jaw twitched. Ronan honed in on that; it was his tell. “You know, I could-” He stopped himself, sighed, twitched his jaw some more. “We could ride back together, if you wanted company.”

Ronan Lynch was not the type of person who needed company for a long drive, not by a long shot, but. Well. Being with Adam was not the same thing as _having company_. _Having company_ was unpleasant and unnecessary and uncomfortable and a thousand other words that began with “un-.” Being with Adam was… nice.

“You wanna?” asked Ronan, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

Adam smiled, halfway and sloppy. “Yeah,” he said, just a little too earnest, and then he rushed to add, “anything’s better than taking the bus.”

Ronan thought he knew what Adam meant.

They turned and crossed the field together, quietly, knocking elbows and shoulders every couple of steps. Each brush of contact made Ronan’s heart rate spike. He swallowed a dozen different sentences, each more incriminating than the last. By the time he opened his mouth with something to say that _wasn’t_ terrifying and soul-bearing, Adam was walking away from him.

“Just a sec,” Adam said, smacking the side of the fieldhouse wall, “gotta tell coach I’m riding back with you.” He disappeared through the doorway and reappeared just moments later, carrying a heavily-worn duffel bag. “Okay, let’s roll.”

Ronan morally objected to anybody under the age of thirty-five using the phrase _let’s roll_ , but he kept his mouth shut as they crossed the parking lot in the direction of the BMW. People were still milling around, parents and students and a couple teammates, and it seemed that every fucking person in the world felt obligated to call out “Parrish!” and wave wildly, but each time Adam just smiled and raised a hand in response. He slid into the front seat of the Beemer without a moment’s hesitation.

Ronan took a second to grin uncontrollably over the roof of the car before opening the driver’s side door and climbing in. He had to get it out of his system before locking himself in a vehicle with Parrish for two hours.

“You know,” said Adam conversationally as Ronan reversed out of his parking spot, “the last time I saw you behind the wheel, you almost killed me.”

“What?” Ronan snapped.

“You know, that day in the parking lot after school. When you couldn’t be bothered to check your mirrors.” 

Which, oh yeah. Ronan _did_ remember that. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

Adam snorted. “I thought you never lied.”

It was going to be a long drive.

Except, unfortunately, it really wasn’t.

Being in the car with Adam was a lot like being in the car alone, Ronan realized quickly. Adam could go from talking and talking and talking to dead silence in the blink of an eye. There was no indicator before he would drop out of conversation, no warning signs — he was talking, and then he wasn’t. And then he was again, albeit about something completely different. It was hard to keep up with him when he got going, and then hard to sit in silence with him when he stopped, but it was difficult in a _fun_ way, like Gansey said puzzles were supposed to be. And, in a way, Adam was definitely a puzzle. The prettiest, most difficult puzzle Ronan had ever encountered, but a puzzle all the same.

Actually, nah. That was _way_ too goddamn nerdy.

But difficult or not, the drive still took no time at all, and Ronan hadn’t even been speeding as much as he usually did. They got back to Henrietta long before Ronan wanted them to, and then his mouth was falling open again, saying words his brain had _not_ given the all-clear on.

“Do you wanna come to my place for dinner?”

Adam went quiet again, not unlike his periodical silences throughout the entire drive, but now he was also unnaturally still in his seat, which seemed bad. His eyes blinked dramatically at the landscape ahead of him, over the dashboard, the only movement in his entire body, and Ronan was about to rescind the offer with an awkward laugh and a _sorry, that’s weird, nevermind_ when Adam cleared his throat and said, “Sure.”

And that was how Ronan ended up leading Adam, still dressed in his lacrosse uniform, up the steps of the front porch and through the front door. Adam was carrying his duffel bag, which Ronan found odd for approximately fifteen seconds before Adam asked, “Hey, I need to change into some regular clothes, where’s the bathroom?” and Ronan pointed in the vague direction of the downstairs bathroom. Adam paused, considered, and then said “Do you mind if I take a really quick shower? I’m, like, soaked.” Ronan just shook his head gruffly and shrugged one shoulder, the picture of fake nonchalance, and then Adam disappeared down the hallway.

As soon as Adam was gone, Ronan was trotting in the other direction, making a beeline for the kitchen. “Mom,” he hissed as soon as he saw Aurora, who was standing in front of the open refrigerator. “Adam’s going to have dinner with us.”

“That’s wonderful!” Aurora said immediately, pulling Ronan down to give him a kiss on the forehead. “Why did you say it like it was a secret?”

“I- I didn’t. It isn’t. Just. What are we having?”

Aurora hummed. “Well, I was just deciding between pizza or making some corned beef and cabbage, like your father used to.”

Ronan thumped his head against the side of the refrigerator. “Pizza. Definitely pizza. Adam and I will go get it when he’s out of the shower.”

“The shower?” Aurora closed the fridge.

Ronan grunted. “He’s all, you know-” he waved his hands around in some wild, nonsensical shape, “sweaty. From lacrosse. He had a lacrosse game.”

Aurora just gave Ronan a Knowing Mom Look. “Of course,” she said, in a voice that said she didn’t really believe him. “Well, my wallet is on the counter, so I guess you can do that when he’s done.” She placed a quick call to the local pizza place and then began to unload the dishwasher.

It was only a couple of minutes before Adam was done in the bathroom, appearing in the kitchen doorway with neat, damp hair and smelling of Ronan’s bodywash. “Sorry about that,” he muttered to Ronan before turning to Aurora with a polite smile. “Dr. Lynch. Good to see you again.”

“Aurora,” she corrected him goodnaturedly, smiling as warmly as she ever had. “And it is wonderful to see you as well. I’m so excited to hear you’ll be joining us for dinner!” 

Adam nodded. “If there’s anything I can help with, please-” 

“Actually, Parrish,” Ronan interrupted, “we’re going to pick up some pizza. You can drive.” He dislodged the Beemer keys from his pocket and tossed them in a high arc across the room. Adam caught them easily while keeping eye contact with Aurora.

“I’ll see you boys soon.” Aurora turned away from them both with the smug smile of a mother who knew her son was happy. Ronan wanted to gag as he scooped her wallet off the counter and dragged Adam through the garage.

“We could have got pizza on the way back,” Adam pointed out as he let himself back into the BMW, on the lefthand side this time.

Ronan huffed as he buckled himself in. “Then it would’ve gotten cold while you showered.”

Adam didn’t say a word as he turned the key in the ignition and reversed easily out of the driveway.

Ronan’s favorite pizza place and his favorite diner were both, interestingly enough, named Nino’s. In a town as small as Henrietta, you would think that businesses would try a little harder to distinguish themselves from one another. You would also think _what are the odds of two different guys named Nino opening restaurants on the same street in the same tiny rural Virginia town?_

The odds, apparently, were very good.

“Blue Sargent works here,” Adam said as he held the door open for Ronan. Ronan shoved his hands into his pockets as he entered the pizzaria, stopping a few feet away at the counter.

He thought about that for a second. “No, she doesn’t,” said Ronan, furrowing his brow. “She works at Nino’s the diner.”

Adam faltered. “That- oh. That makes sense.” He frowned, which was a ridiculous reaction to the conversation. There was a story there, then — possibly part of an explanation as to why Blue had dated and dumped Adam their sophomore year — but Ronan didn’t really want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear about how his best friend had had a real relationship with Adam, and all Ronan got was fake-dating-to-make-other-people-jealous, and Adam was still in love with Joseph fuckin’ Kavinsky, which. Wow. Adam had worse taste in men than Ronan, and that was saying something.

“I called ahead,” Ronan said to the woman at the counter with as much politeness as he could muster. He was a dick, but he tried to be nicer to service workers than other people. “Lynch.” The woman typed something into the computer, nodded, and then disappeared into the back. She reappeared a few moments later holding three cardboard pizza boxes. 

Ronan pulled a bill from his wallet, really too large a bill to be using at a pizza place, and then set it down easily on the counter. “Keep the change,” he said as he took the boxes, and the woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing except a quiet _thank you_ before opening the register.

Adam didn’t say a word as they left the restaurant, even as he held the door for Ronan once again and then opened Ronan’s door to help him get into the Beemer. It wasn’t until they were back at Ronan’s house and Adam was opening another door that he said, “Careful, don’t wanna drop the world’s most expensive pizza.”

So, oh, it had been a money thing. Not completely unexpected from Adam, when taken in the context of him working three jobs and having his own apartment. Ronan couldn’t help but cringe inwardly at how obnoxious he must have seemed at Nino’s, how blind he was. He had acted like Gansey, he realized with a tidal wave of nausea. 

Instead of fixing any of this, though, Ronan’s go-to _oops I upset someone I care about_ instinct kicked in, which was unfortunate for everyone involved. He didn’t even register the fact that he was speaking until he heard his own clipped voice saying, “Sorry, next time I’ll make sure not to tip at all. You know, to even things out.”

Adam’s jaw twitched, but it was entirely different way from the jaw twitches Ronan had noted earlier.

“You’re back!” Aurora said as soon as they stepped through the kitchen door. Her delight was palpable. Ronan dropped the boxes on the counter without ceremony and tossed her wallet on top of them for good measure, and Aurora’s eyes flashed minutely as she took in her son’s bad mood. “I’ll go call Matthew to dinner.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” said Adam quickly, just a hint of accent catching on his words. “I’ll go get him.” He nodded politely as he passed Aurora and headed down the hall.

As soon as Adam was gone from the kitchen, Aurora turned to Ronan. “Did you two have a fight?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“No, Mom.” Ronan was gritting his teeth. “I hit a nerve. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“Do I need to ask him to leave?”

Ronan blanched. “ _Jesus_ , Mom, no, you really don’t. It’s fine. He probably has, like, low blood sugar or whatever. Don’t worry about it.”

Aurora nodded at that, looking completely unconvinced but resigned to eating dinner with her angry son and his angry boyfriend. Adam returned with Matthew trailing him devotedly, gushing about something that was at least interesting enough for Adam to fake intrigue.

“...and then Ronan got really mad, and-”

Ronan did not even need to know what story Matthew was telling before he interrupted. “Hey, pal, did you wash your hands?”

Matthew’s smile didn’t waver. “Oh, nope! Be right back!” He turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom.

“I should wash my hands too,” Adam said automatically, turning to follow Matthew. Ronan took two gigantic steps across the kitchen and caught his arm.

It was barely noticeable, but Ronan had learned just that day that everything Adam did was noticeable — he flinched. Just barely, but it was there. Ronan dropped his arm immediately.

“There’s a sink in the kitchen, Parrish,” was all he said.

Adam, whose face was turning an interesting shade of scarlet, nodded and headed for the sink. When his back was turned, Aurora raised a concerned eyebrow at Ronan, but Ronan just shook his head and waited until Adam had stepped away from the sink to wash his own hands.

All things considered, Ronan thought dinner went pretty well.

Adam was at least good at faking like he was in a good mood, and he kept his stream of conversation steadier at the table than he had in the car, although he engaged almost solely with Aurora and Matthew. Ronan tried not to take offense and failed miserably. His own attitude lashed out once or twice, but Adam, forever responsible and polite, refused to push back while in front of Ronan’s mom.

Aurora, to her everlasting credit, took it all in stride.

So, it was going conceivably decent. At least, until there was a knock at the front door.

“I’ll get it!” Matthew said before bursting out of his chair and shooting down the hallway like a bullet. Ronan, who had seen a good ten seasons of Criminal Minds, followed his younger brother down the hallway in the hopes of preventing a home invasion. When Matthew threw the door open, Ronan had a perfect view of the visitor.

Gansey.

“Gansey!” Matthew exclaimed immediately, throwing himself at the boy. Gansey caught him, hugged him back, and then pulled away with a great smile.

“Matthew!” Gansey said ecstatically. He patted the younger boy on the shoulders. “Can I come in?”

Matthew was a kind and loving boy, so naturally he said, “Of course!” Ronan, however, was brash and thoughtless, so at the exact same time, he said “No.”

A flicker of pain crossed Gansey’s face. It stung Ronan even harder. “Oh,” said Gansey, shocked. “Um, may I ask why not?” 

Ronan’s face burned. “It’s just, uh, it’s not a good time, Gansey.”

“Of course.” Even when his feelings had been hurt in unspeakable ways, he was ever polite. It hurt Ronan’s heart in ways he couldn’t have articulated if he had tried. “Sorry to disturb your evening. Have a good night.” He gave Matthew one quick, strained smile, and then turned and walked away.

Matthew didn’t even close the door before turning to Ronan with a confused look. “What was that for? You should have invited him to dinner!”

Ronan stepped forward and slammed the door. He locked it for good measure. “We already have a guest,” he said gruffly, pushing Matthew along toward the hallway. “It wouldn’t have been fair to invite Gansey to stay when Adam was already here.”

It was a bullshit excuse, and it made zero sense, but Matthew nodded thoughtfully anyway. “Oh,” he said, like he had decided to accept that answer as truthful, which was not entirely un-Matthew-like. “Okay.”

They returned to the table, which was quiet as Adam and Aurora both looked to Ronan expectantly. “Who was that?” Aurora asked before taking a bite of her pizza. She pressed her napkin to her lips.

Ronan gave Matthew a pointed look, then settled his gaze on Adam. “It was nobody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i hope you liked it! i decided at, like, 10pm to write and edit a chapter for my wesper WIP all in one sitting and then when i finished that i thought, why not get a tatrbilb update written too! so i sat down at midnight and decided to write and edit this chapter all in one sitting as well, and now my brain is broken. rip me i guess. as always, you are welcome to come interact with me on tumblr, i'm @wespers :) if i don't have another update posted in, like, two weeks, feel free to bully me until i write the next chapter.


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. here is a MONSTER of a chapter for you all (14k words isn't even really that long but it's the longest chapter i've ever written and i have to say i'm pretty proud of it). like the previous chapter, this doesn't line up with the storylines of tatbilb nor trc; i just would not have been able to live with myself for skipping over halloween and ronan's birthday. this chapter includes underage drinking, canon-typical violence, blood, angst, fluff, banter, nightmares, mentions of death, ronan-compliant swearing, food mentions, references to the marvel cinematic universe and brokeback mountain, and maybe some bluesey if you squint! this turned out a lot more serious than i had intended it to be, sorry, but i promise we'll be back to our regularly-scheduled fluff soon! i hope you like it!

“This was _not_ in the contract,” Ronan said bitterly.

Adam paused where he was rummaging through a clearance bin. “I distinctly remember adding ‘parties’ to the contract,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at Ronan, before diving back in with twice the enthusiasm.

Ronan scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “We said _lacrosse_ parties, not _Halloween_ parties.”

“Actually,” huffed Adam, pulling a mask from the bin and tossing it at Ronan without looking up, “if I recall correctly, which we both know that I _do_ , there were no specifications around the word ‘party.’ I used ‘party’ as a broad phrase, just in case you decided to be an asshole about this.”

Ronan, who had caught the mask easily, just sneered. “Dude, a Ghostface mask? Seriously? You want me to dress up as the killer from Scream? And who will you be, Sidney fuckin’ Prescott? Yeah, that’s romantic.”

Adam didn’t look up, but the twitch of his lips gave away his amusement. “So you haven’t seen Fight Club, but you’ve seen Scream. Figures.”

“Scream is a good movie.”

“It is. I’m just surprised to learn that you actually have a modicum of taste after all.”

Ronan made an indignant noise in his throat. “Don’t use words like _modicum_. Gives me hives.”

“You’re allergic to big words?”

“I’m allergic to nerds,” Ronan shot back.

Adam just sighed and continued to sift through the bin. “Are you gonna help me out at all?” he asked, tossing aside a gorilla mask with minor annoyance. “Or are you just gonna stand there and be quippy?”

Ronan considered his options. “I think I’ll just stand here and be quippy,” he said decisively.

Adam groaned. “If you don’t help, this is gonna take twice as long,” he muttered, more to the clearance bin than to Ronan.

“Well, if I _do_ help, then you might get the impression that I endorse any what’s happening here.”

Adam snorted. “Trust me, you do _not_ have to worry about that.” Finally he stood up straight, shook his head, and turned around. “Come on. Seriously. We need to find costumes soon, I have work in an hour.”

After a second, Ronan walked up beside Adam, his arms still folded across his chest. “The garage?” he asked casually, staring at the display in front of them rather than look at Adam. In his periphery, he saw Adam nod.

“Yeah, it’s just a couple hours, but I’ve got a lot of homework tonight, so I really can’t spend more time on this than absolutely necessary.” Adam crossed his arms as well, a mirror image of Ronan. “So. Any suggestions?”

“Hm.” Ronan scowled slightly, turning his head this way and that, and then smirked at the costume that caught his eye. “What about this?” He walked an aisle over and grabbed a dark cowboy hat, putting it on and then tipping it in a parody of southern gentleman-ness. “Whaddya think, pardner?”

Adam tried and failed to repress a smile, but his eyes were more or less horrified. “You wanna dress up as _cowboys_ for a _high school Halloween party_ with your _boyfriend_?”

Ronan just nodded, still grinning sharply, and picked up a prop lasso.

With a grimace, Adam reached forward and took the hat right off of Ronan’s head. “Yeah, as good as you make it look, Lynch, I’d rather not be called _Brokeback Mountain_ for the rest of my high school career.”

Heat rushed to Ronan’s cheeks at the compliment, but he chose to ignore it. “What’s Brokeback Mountain?” he asked with a frown.

Adam blinked. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

Ronan shook his head. “Why would I be kidding? The fuck is Brokeback Mountain?”

At this, Adam actually had the audacity to laugh. “You are one of a kind,” he mumbled under his breath, and it was half an insult and half a compliment. He set the hat back on the shelf and then took the lasso from Ronan as well, their fingertips brushing, and put it away. “Okay, try again.”

It went like that for another twenty minutes. Ronan suggested dressing as pirates, wizards, vampires, cops, doctors, and, in a moment of weakness, priests. For every idea he had, though, Adam had a reason they shouldn’t: _Pirates are overdone. Wizards are cringey. Vampires involve too much makeup. I hate cops. We shouldn’t mock the medical profession. Aren’t you a devout Catholic?_ They had both expected Ronan to be the difficult one to shop for. They had both been wrong.

“Come _on_ , Parrish,” Ronan snarled after Adam rejected another costume (“ _Hippie, Lynch, really?_ ” was apparently an entire argument). “What happened to _I really can’t spend more time on this than absolutely necessary_? It doesn’t matter. It isn’t that deep. Just pick something so we can go.”

Adam’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing as he turned and began to push things around on another rack. The set of his shoulders was tense and his motions were mindless, as if he was thinking of something very far from Halloween costumes. Suddenly, absurdly, Ronan felt as if he had said the wrong thing. He took a deep breath to push his irritation back a bit, and then stepped up beside Adam. If possible, Adam tensed more.

“What about kings?” Ronan suggested after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

Adam exhaled through his nose. “We don’t have to do this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “We don’t — it’s not even — you’re right, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have to go. You probably have other Halloween plans anyway.”

With a snort, Ronan pushed something aside on the rack just to have something to do with his hands. “Oh, yeah, I’ve got all sorts of plans with my many, many friends,” he said sarcastically. Without looking, he knew that Adam was rolling his eyes.

“I’m sure Matthew wants to hang out with you or whatever.”

Just to be contrary, Ronan snorted again. “Matthew’s got more plans than he’s got time. He’s, like, weirdly popular.”

Adam pushed past another costume on the rack. “It isn’t weird at all. Have you _met_ him? He’s impossible not to like.”

That was fair. “The point stands. I don’t have anything better to do than go to this stupid party with you.” It looked like Adam was about to argue, so Ronan added, “Plus, it’s in the contract.”

With a suspicious sidelong-glance, Adam nodded. “Yeah.”

“So, it’s settled.” Absolutely nothing was settled. “Wait a second, what is _this_?” Ronan said suddenly, pulling a costume off the rack so quickly that he nearly ripped it. “Oh, this is _perfect_.”

Adam arched one perfect eyebrow. “Seriously, Lynch?” His voice was judgmental, but his posture was much more relaxed. “You wanna dress up as—”

“Not me,” Ronan interrupted, turning so he could drape the costume across the front of Adam’s body. “ _You_.”

Adam’s eyes widened. “Wait, you want _me_ —”

Ronan’s grin was maniacal. “Please, Parrish,” he said, his voice low. “For me?”

Swallowing deeply, Adam slid the fabric between his fingers. He ground his teeth. “I don’t think I can pull it off,” he said, his eyes downcast.

“Oh, believe me, Parrish,” said Ronan, deliberately ignoring the way his face and neck were flushing, “you can pull it off.”

Adam was blushing, too. He took the hanger from Ronan’s grasp, turned it around to get a better look at the costume. His gaze was both hungry and apprehensive; Ronan had never wanted to kiss another person so much in his life. The realization hit him like a freight train: he really, _really_ liked Adam Parrish.

And then Adam’s face did something complicated. “Wait, if I wear this, what are you gonna wear?” His eyebrows were furrowed, but there was still amiability in his eyes, the upturn of his lips. Ronan grinned even wider. 

“I have an idea.”

It did not occur to Ronan until he was unbuckling his seatbelt that maybe he had made a bad call.

Not maybe. He had _definitely_ made a bad call.

It was tempting to buckle back in, turn the Beemer on, and high-tail it back home. Nobody would know, after all, certainly not Adam — he could just go home, get into his pajamas, lay in bed till his body finally fell into sleep in the wee hours of the morning. It would be fine. He could leave. He _should_.

He opened the door and slid out of the Beemer into the darkness of the parking lot, a paper bag dangling from his hand. He was Ronan Lynch; backing down wasn’t really his style.

There was only one car in the lot other than the BMW. Adam’s shitbox was on the edge of the lot, backed into its space neatly, with much more care than the car truly deserved. There were three streetlights spaced out through the lot and around the building, but only one seemed to be functional, and even it was having problems. It flickered incessantly as Ronan slammed his door and headed toward the garage, walking straight past the darkened office windows and haphazard CLOSED sign to trail around to the back of the building. 

On the other side of the building, one garage door was wide open, light and music spilling out all across the lot and the scraggly field behind Boyd’s. Yellow light illuminated the stray pebbles and dry grass for nearly a hundred feet, turning each shape into a ghastly shadow, but whoever was inside obviously was not worried about what could be lurking in the dark. A radio inside the garage was playing classic rock music quietly, and a lone masculine voice was singing along, low and calm.

Ronan did not bother to keep quiet as he strolled inside, swinging the paper bag with each step. He was sure that Adam was the only person present, but he was not interested in sneaking up on him. His boots crunched gravel in a satisfying way as he crossed the garage.

“Sorry,” Adam’s voice called out after a second, from underneath a car. “We’re closed.”

Because Adam could not see him, Ronan dared a smile. “That’s too bad, Parrish,” he said over the sound of the radio station cutting to commercial. “I had a special delivery for you.”

Adam rolled out from under the vehicle he was working on (something white and vaguely ugly) and turned a wary look toward Ronan. “Lynch,” he said slowly, confusion and something else mixing in his voice and his eyes. “What’re you doing here?”

Ronan gave an unconvincing shrug. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said, and in his brain he immediately justified it as the truth, because he was _was_ in the neighborhood — with the purpose of coming to see Adam, but still. He held up the bag. “Figured you could use something to eat.”

Adam wiped his hands on his thighs, grease transferring from skin to fabric. The sleeves of his coveralls were tied low and loose around his hips, exposing a white t-shirt and tan, toned arms, his entire upper body smudged with grease and sweat and dirt. He had dark stains on his collarbones, his biceps, his throat, even high on his cheekbones. It should not have been attractive. It definitely was.

His fingernails were still lined in black even as Adam took the greasy fast food bag from Ronan’s hand and peered inside without a word. His jaw twitched a few times, as if he was having a silent argument with himself, but after a couple of seconds he reached inside and plucked out a french fry. He didn’t look up as he bit it in half.

An uncharacteristic wave of nervousness ebbed and flowed in Ronan’s chest the longer that Adam went without speaking. Nervousness had never been a problem Ronan had to deal with before then; it was like he was wired not to think before acting, before speaking. He charged into situations without a thought, he said things without even realizing there might be consequences. He did not like how it felt to be nervous, how his heart pounded — not the hard, steady rhythm of an adrenaline rush but the quiet, frenzied, hummingbird-wings of anxiety — or how his lungs couldn’t seem to swallow enough air — he knew he was breathing, logically, but he couldn’t _feel_ it, and he was burning, why was he burning, it was suddenly a thousand degrees and he was wearing a goddamned leather jacket, and god, why wasn’t Adam _speaking_? Had Ronan really done something so wrong that Adam couldn’t even vocalize it? Had he crossed a line by coming here, by bringing him food, was he doing everything wrong —

“Thanks, man,” said Adam belatedly, stuffing a few more fries into his mouth. His lips were shiny with grease, and Ronan wondered how they’d taste. He swallowed the thought. And then he swallowed again, for good measure. Adam’s eyes followed the movement and then flickered back to Ronan’s. “Did you, uh, order your costume?”

Ronan nodded, the movement jerky. “Yeah.” He reached into the bag and grabbed a fry for himself, tossing it into his mouth with his signature faux confidence. “Should be here in a couple of days, plenty of time to make the party.” Then he nodded toward the car Adam had been working on. “What’s wrong with fugly over there?”

Adam snorted. “God, what isn’t wrong with it?” He glanced at the vehicle over his shoulder with a grimace, then turned back to Ronan and shook his head. “Busted transmission, damaged brake line, worn out master cylinder. I’d suggest putting it out of its misery, but you’ve seen my car. Glass houses, or whatever.”

With an amused hum, Ronan stole another fry. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure your car violates the Geneva Convention, Parrish.” He reached for another fry, but this time Adam snatched the bag away.

“No food for Hondayota haters,” Adam said, dropping the bag onto a cluttered tabletop to his right. He sucked some fast food grease off his fingers and then checked his watch, heaving a deep sigh. The hand he ran through his hair was still streaked with grease, but he didn’t seem to care. “I gotta get back to work. Fugly’s not gonna fix itself.” He turned back toward the car with a complicated expression, and then his face went carefully neutral and he looked at Ronan over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay, if you want.”

Well, boy, did he.

Ronan leaned against a workbench as Adam slid back underneath the white car, the radio still playing drum-heavy rock music somewhere nearby. He resisted the urge to turn it down. Strangely, Ronan felt the compulsion to _talk_. It was a rare thing for him to want to _talk_ to a person, to make _conversation_ when they could have a perfectly fun time being quiet, but, well. It was already strange enough that he had come to see Adam; he didn’t have to make it more awkward by just sitting there silently the entire time that Adam worked. He grit his teeth and said, “So, cars.”

It was just about the worst small talk introduction he could possibly have made. He groaned inwardly, rolled his eyes at himself, and opened his mouth to quantify the statement, but instead Adam said, voice muffled by the thousand-pound vehicle on top of him, “The movie, the band, or the thing?”

Ronan paused. “There’s a band called Cars?”

“Well, it’s _The_ Cars, but that’s neither here nor there.” One tan, stained hand reached out from under the vehicle to grab blindly at a few tools spread out across the cement floor. Ronan took the opportunity to study the fine bones, the jut of the thumb, before the hand wrapped around a wrench and disappeared again.

“Are you a fan of The Cars?”

Beneath the car, Adam snorted. “No. Are you?”

Ronan huffed out a deep breath. “Well, considering I didn’t know they existed until a second ago, I’m gonna have to go with ‘no.’ How do we feel about the movie?”

There was a brief pause as Adam did something to the car. Then he said, “I’m a fan. Top three Owen Wilson movies for sure.”

“Really?” Ronan immediately pulled his phone out of his pocket and Googled _owen wilson movies_. “Personally, I liked…” He squinted at the screen. “Midnight in Paris.”

“I hate you,” said Adam immediately. “You won’t watch Quentin Tarantino movies, but you’ll watch Woody Allen? What’s wrong with you?” He actually rolled out from under the car to narrow his eyes at Ronan, but almost immediately relaxed. “Oh,” he said. “You’re messing with me. You don’t know what you’re talking about at all, do you?”

Ronan just shook his head. Adam chuckled.

“And I thought Ronan Lynch never lied,” Adam muttered as he slid back beneath the car. “D’you have any plans tomorrow?”

“Nope,” said Ronan immediately, popping the ‘p’ with more fervor than was strictly necessary. “Why, what’s up?”

Adam fumbled for another tool that was out of his line of site. “I thought we could have that movie marathon.”

Unchecked, Ronan grinned. He took a few steps to the table where Adam had dropped the bag of food and plucked a fry from it, trying and failing to school his features. “It’s a fuckin’ date, then, Parrish.” He swallowed the fry and wiped his hands on his jeans messily. “When do you get off tonight?”

“It’ll be another couple of hours.” If this annoyed Adam, he did not let on; his voice was casual even buried beneath the world’s ugliest car. “I’m here pretty late every night till this bad boy is fixed.”

Ronan scowled. “Why can’t someone else work on it?”

There was a pause then, not a natural pause but one of discomfort. Like Adam didn’t want to answer the question. The words left his lips anyway. “I’m the only person who can,” he said, deceptively neutral.

With a snort, Ronan drummed his fingers along the edge of the worktable in front of him. The tone of Adam’s voice begged him not to ask, but he had to. “Why?”

From underneath the car, Adam let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. His foot, which had been tapping restlessly where it stuck out from beneath the engine, stilled. “Because K told Boyd I’m the only person allowed to touch it.”

Understanding washed over Ronan, but not pleasantly. It mingled with nausea and rage and, yeah, jealousy, to create something positively unholy in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. He wanted to put his fist through Kavinsky’s face. 

It wasn’t even that Ronan hated Kavinsky (although he pretty much did). It wasn’t even that Kavinsky was the big bad antagonist of Ronan’s life (although he pretty much was). It was so much more complicated than black-and-white high school hatred, because once upon a time, Ronan had loved Kavinsky. Not in an unmailed-letter-in-a-Doc-Martens-box sort of way, not like he loved Adam or Gansey or Noah. He had loved Kavinsky like he loved Blue — like best friends.

Because wasn’t that what they had been? In middle school, when Gansey was off gallivanting around the world studying shit that Ronan couldn’t care less about, and Declan was too old and too cool to spend time with his dorky little brother — Kavinsky had adopted him — it had been Kavinsky and Ronan, sitting together at lunch and partnering up in class and hanging out after school. Kavinsky and Ronan, setting shit on fire in the backyard, tracking mud all over the house, causing general chaos and havoc all across the city of Henrietta. 

And, then.

Ronan couldn’t remember why he and Kavinsky had stopped being friends. He couldn’t particularly remember _when_ , either. His father had died the summer before high school started, and everything between ninth and tenth grade was a drunken blur, but he did vividly remember this: a silent high school cafeteria, Joseph Kavinsky’s knuckles cracking across the side of his face, cold tile beneath him. He remembered this: pinning Kavinsky to the floor, tears threatening to spill over his lash line, punching K’s lights out. He remembered this: Declan and Gansey yanking them apart, the former livid and the latter distraught, Adam Parrish struggling to prevent Kavinsky from throwing another punch. He remembered this: Blue Sargent elbowing her way between Declan and Ronan and escorting Ronan to the principal’s office herself, stony silent but supportive. He remembered this: he and Kavinsky had hated each other ever since.

But hating somebody after loving them is a far more dangerous, painful thing than to hate them without ever truly knowing them. Hating Kavinsky after loving him multiplied the barbs that Ronan felt in his chest, his throat. It exacerbated the intensity of the pain and the anger, it made even the mention of his name toxic. Ronan ground his teeth hotly.

He should not have agreed to fake-date Adam Parrish. Not knowing that it was ultimately about making Kavinsky jealous, not knowing that in the end, Kavinsky would get Adam back and Ronan would be alone. The only thing that he hated more than Kavinsky was the thought of Kavinsky with Adam, Adam who was smart, Adam who was funny, Adam who was wonderful. Adam, who deserved far better than Joseph fucking Kavinsky and his ugly-ass car.

 _The anger you are feeling is not meant for Adam_ , the logical part of Ronan’s brain told him as he clenched his fists. _He is not the source of your pain. Don’t take this out on him._

Ronan had always been much more attuned to his emotions than to logic.

“How’s that going, anyway?” Ronan spat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. His throat was burning. “How is he even supposed to get jealous and decide he misses you if you two still talk every fucking day? If you’re still the best of fucking friends?”

Adam slid out from underneath the car — not just _any_ car, the fucking _Mitsubishi_ , how hadn’t Ronan noticed earlier? — and sat up as he locked eyes with him, deadly calm. “Don’t tell me how to go about getting my boyfriend back, and I won’t tell _you_ how to go about convincing your brother’s boyfriend that you don’t like him.”

“ _Boyfriend_ ,” Ronan repeated mockingly, his lips curled in disgust. “You may have been _his_ boyfriend, Parrish, but he sure as hell wasn’t _yours_. You said it yourself, he fucking cheated on you, and everyone at school knew he treated you like garbage to begin with. Why do you want him back so badly? Why are you in love with somebody who doesn’t give a fuck?”

“I never said I was in love with him,” objected Adam, and the comment stopped Ronan in his tracks. What a strange part of his diatribe to latch onto, what a strange thing to deflect. Before he could properly analyze it, though, Adam was continuing, pushing himself up into a standing position. “It isn’t about _love_ , it’s about being _wanted_. I couldn’t care less if he loved me, because I wouldn’t even know it to see it. I just need to be _wanted_.” The words seemed to tumble out of him before he could stop them, and as soon as they had left his mouth, he was backpedaling. “It doesn’t matter, none of it matters, just get out of here. Seriously. Just go. You need to go. I need to finish up on the transmission for the night, I have homework, get out of here, Ronan.” He was rambling so quickly that Ronan couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise if he had known what to say. Adam walked to the table, picked up the half-empty bag of fast food and shoved it toward Ronan’s chest. “Just get out. Go. I’m serious. You need to go.”

Normally, Ronan would not have backed down, but after that, he didn’t have a damn clue what he was supposed to do or say. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was very, truly, speechless.

He went.

“This is unexpected.”

He hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but the three words had slipped out of his mouth of their own damn accord — much like the things Adam had yelled at him in the garage the night before. To his credit, Adam winced as he took in Ronan’s words and ducked his head sheepishly, reaching his free hand behind his head to scratch at the back of his neck for a second. His voice was apologetic when he asked, “Can I come in?”

Ronan opened the door wider and leaned out of the way, and Adam stepped over the threshold gratefully, letting the door shut softly behind him. He followed Ronan through a doorway into the sitting room and then they both stopped in the middle of the room, Ronan fixing Adam with a cutting stare and Adam swallowing hard before meeting the gaze with his own.

 _I’m sorry_ was the sentence Ronan expected Adam to say, although he wasn’t really sure what Adam had to apologize for. Ronan had been the one to intrude on Adam’s workplace, to pick a fight, to upset him. All things considered, Ronan was in the wrong, even if Adam had gotten a little snappy and kicked him out. Adam really didn’t owe him an apology; he didn’t owe Ronan anything. Still, Ronan had not been expecting the words that came out of Adam’s mouth instead. “I brought Fight Club.” He held up a DVD that Ronan hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Ronan arched an eyebrow but said nothing as he took the DVD from Adam and crossed the room to put the disc in the machine.

“Where’s Little Lynch?” Adam asked as he sat down on the opposite end of the sectional couch from Ronan a few moments later.

“Friend’s house.”

“And your mom?”

Ronan leaned his head back against the cushion, the leather smooth and cool beneath his shorn head. “Work.”

Adam nodded. Slowly, he kicked off his boots and then pulled his legs up onto the couch, not quite watching for Ronan’s reaction but moving with the wariness of somebody who was waiting to be told _no_. Instead, Ronan just turned his body to bring his own legs up onto the couch, trying to convey the message that it was fine. Neither boy said another word as the movie began to play, but Ronan could feel the couch shift as Adam allowed himself to get more comfortable. He felt the disgusting urge to smile, but instead he just turned his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. Adam, who had already been looking, raised an eyebrow in return.

They both turned to watch the movie.

“I’m having second thoughts.”

“That’s too fuckin’ bad, Parrish. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Through the bathroom door, Ronan heard Adam sigh deeply and theatrically before the lock clicked. Then the door was opening, and Adam was glaring, and Ronan was having fucking palpitations.

In the Halloween store, when Adam had said he wouldn’t be able to pull off the costume, he hadn’t just been wrong. He had been _more wrong than anybody in documented history_. He had been so wrong that it would have been funny had it not been so god damn _hot_. Adam’s shoulders were broader than Ronan thought they were — his chest slightly more toned — his thighs — that was not a road Ronan should go down — he looked up, up, up — Adam was caught somewhere between vague annoyance and not-so-vague smugness — uh oh.

Adam smirked.

“You like it?” Adam asked, even though the answer was glaringly obvious.

“No,” Ronan snapped, but Adam’s face didn’t fall; he smiled _wider_. Ronan bared his teeth. “Now get out of my way, I gotta change, too.” Adam stepped out of the bathroom and around Ronan, who just narrowed his eyes as he shoved his way past. As he closed the door behind him, he could swear he heard Adam laughing at him.

Ronan’s costume took a bit longer to change into than he had anticipated. It felt a bit tight — that’s what you get for buying a Halloween costume on Amazon — and there were more straps and fastenings than any sane person would choose to wear, but when he finally finished dressing and looked into the mirror, the payoff was worth it. He steeled himself and opened the bathroom door.

Adam was not in the hallway, but he was not difficult to find. Across the hall, through Ronan’s open door, he could see Adam sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning back on his elbows against the comforter, staring at the ceiling. At the sound of the bathroom door opening, he turned his head to meet Ronan’s eyes, and then his gaze flickered all the way down Ronan’s body and back up again. He let out a low whistle.

“You clean up good, Lynch,” he said, and the tips of Ronan’s ears went red.

Ronan lifted a hand to his mouth and chewed absently at his leather bands for a moment. “You ready to go?” he mumbled into his wrist.

Adam nodded and pushed up off the mattress, shutting the door behind him as he followed Ronan downstairs.

As they reached the foot of the stairs, Aurora appeared in the kitchen doorway, obviously just arriving home from work. “Boys!” she exclaimed excitedly, taking in their appearances with a warm smile. “Oh, don’t you two look amazing! Oh my goodness, I have to get some pictures before you leave!”

Ronan and Adam exchanged a look. Ronan’s look said _Is this weird? You can tell me if it’s weird. We totally don’t have to do this if you don’t want to._ Adam’s look replied _It’s just a couple of pictures. It’s fine. And anyway, your mom’s enthusiasm is infectious._

Out loud, Adam said, “Of course, Dr. Lynch. Where do you want us?”

“Aurora,” she corrected him kindly. “Ooh, how about in front of the fireplace?”

And so that was how Ronan came to be standing in front of the fireplace in the family room of his childhood home, dressed in a painfully elaborate (and expensive) Halloween costume, one arm thrown awkwardly around Adam Parrish’s shoulders as his mother snapped a million pictures of them on her cell phone. “Oh, come on, Ronan,” she scolded him as she took a step back, taking another picture. “You look like you don’t even like him. Come on, at least smile a little.”

Ronan swallowed. He was trying to pretend to like Adam, which wouldn’t have been nearly so hard if he hadn’t had to pretend he _didn’t_ like Adam first. So, really, he was pretending to like Adam to cover up for the fact that he was pretending to not like Adam to cover up for the fact that he very much _did_ like Adam, in a way that complicated their fake relationship greatly. It was possible his face looked pained. He knew it _felt_ pained.

“Relax a little, Ronan,” Adam whispered, turning his face toward Ronan’s slightly. His nose brushed the shell of Ronan’s ear. “We just need one good pic, and then we can go. Smile.”

Ronan was smiling before Adam even finished his sentence. Aurora took a couple more pictures, and then, with a dramatic gasp, announced, “Oh, that is the _one_.”

As soon as Aurora had lowered her phone, Adam was pulling away from Ronan. “Will you please AirDrop those to me, ma’am?” he asked in a low voice, his accent unfurling at the edges. Aurora nodded and tapped her phone a few times, and a moment later Adam’s phone pinged with a notification. He accepted the AirDrop and then immediately pocketed his phone and turned back to Ronan. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Ronan said. He took a few steps toward his mother to give her a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see you later, Mom. Love you.”

“Curfew is two!” Aurora reminded them both as they headed for the front door. “Stay safe! Make good choices! I love you!”

On the way out the door, Adam swiped the Beemer’s keys from a hook on the wall. He climbed into the driver’s seat wordlessly, tossed the prop that went with his costume into the backseat, and buckled his seatbelt in one fluid motion. He was reversing down the driveway before Ronan could lean forward to turn the heat up.

“Where’s the fire?” Ronan grunted from the passenger seat as Adam shifted gears and sped down the block. They came to a full stop at the stop sign, which was more than Ronan could ever say about driving through that intersection, and then they were off again.

Adam gave half a shrug with his right arm, fingers flexing on the gearshift. “Halloween’s… never been my favorite holiday.” He flicked his turn signal half a block in advance, stereotypical Parrish Responsibility. “And Halloween parties aren’t really my thing, either, especially when they’re at Tad’s place.”

Glancing over at Adam, Ronan frowned. “Then why even go?” he asked, fiddling with the window controls to give his hands something to do.

“Because I have to.”

The response was so immediate, so reflexive, that Ronan couldn’t repress his scoff. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Adam’s shoulders tense. “You don’t _have_ to do anything,” said Ronan, his brows furrowed. He glared at the dashboard. “You sure as hell don’t have to go to stupid parties that you don’t even enjoy.”

Adam’s eyes were trained deliberately on the road. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, his voice cold. 

“The fuck I wouldn’t.” Anger was rising in Ronan’s chest, and he didn’t like it. He hated getting mad at Adam, hated arguing with Adam, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You think you’re so _unknowable_. Ever stop to think that _unknown_ and _unknowable_ are two different fucking things?”

Adam’s knuckles were white where they were clenched around the gearshift. He ground his teeth and inhaled deeply before answering. “I’m not going to spend the night fighting with you, Ronan. Tell me now if I need to turn around and take you home.”

Ronan was tempted to take Adam up on that offer, but his resolve softened at the sound of his first name on Adam’s lips. He deflated slightly in his seat. “Fine,” he snapped, crossing his arms. “I’m done arguing. _For now_. You better at least try to have fun at this fucking party, though.”

Shifting gears, Adam smiled slightly. “Deal.”

When they arrived at Tad Carruther’s house — _for the last time, Parrish, that’s not a house, it’s a mansion, I would know_ — the party was already in full swing, to both Ronan’s dismay and his relief. The only thing worse than an Aglionby party that was raging was an Aglionby party that was drowning. Adam parked the BMW in a church two blocks from Tad’s house, but not without reminding Ronan who would be paying any tickets or fines. He fished his prop out of the backseat and then they took the last leg of their journey on foot.

“Wanna take bets on Tad’s costume?” Ronan said after a moment in an attempt to dispel the awkward silence surrounding them. 

Adam snorted. “Oh, it will one-hundred-percent be some sexified occupation sort of thing.” 

“Ugh,” Ronan groaned, disgusted. “We thinkin’ doctor, teacher, cop…?”

“He did cop last year,” said Adam. “Twenty bucks says he goes for doctor this year.” They were less than a block away by now, and the music blaring from all four floors of the Carruthers house seemed to be setting Adam on edge; the closer they came, the more tense he grew, the more he shuttered his eyes. 

Ronan scrambled for something to keep the mood light. “Alright, and another ten says he hits on you within the first fifteen minutes.”

The sound that Adam made was both disgusted and disgruntled, but the corner of his lips twitched upwards. “Alright,” he repeated. They were a house away. “Can you do me a favor tonight, Ronan?”

“Of course,” Ronan said without thinking. His heart was soaring — it was hot when Adam called him by his last name, but it was something else entirely when Adam called him _Ronan_. “Anything.”

They stepped up into Tad’s yard. Adam paused for a moment, pulling self-consciously at his costume, and then looked up to lock eyes with Ronan. “Don’t fight anybody. Please.”

Ronan did not like the implications of that statement, whether they be that Ronan was likely to pick a fight with somebody or that somebody there was likely to pick a fight with Ronan. Either way, he grit his teeth and said, “I won’t, Parrish, I promise.”

Adam nodded. He swallowed audibly and took a step forward, then, almost as an afterthought, reached back to offer a hand to Ronan. Ronan accepted without hesitation and followed Adam up the walkway, across the porch, and inside the house.

If Ronan thought it was loud outside — which he had — then the inside of the house was _deafening_. Music played at impossible volumes, and over a hundred teenagers were singing along or shouting to be heard or crying incoherently in corners. There was hardly any room to move, any room to think, and every instinct in Ronan’s body told him to Get Out. His heart, though, said to stay with Adam, and so he did. Adam shoved his way through the crowd, nodding curtly at the cheers of “Parrish!” that erupted from the room sporadically, and tugged Ronan right along into the kitchen.

Blessedly, the kitchen was much less crowded than the main room (rooms? Ronan still wasn’t very sure of the house’s setup). The music was still unbearable, and Adam was obviously uncomfortable as he grabbed two clean solo cups from a plastic package in a cabinet, but at least there was room for Ronan to lean against the counter and sigh. Adam was still holding his hand, even as he struggled to uncap a bottle one-handed. As Ronan watched, Adam poured a cup of pink lemonade and cup of half-pink lemonade, half-vodka. He handed the spiked drink to Ronan.

“Pink lemonade?” Ronan questioned, one brow raised, leaning in toward Adam’s good ear. Adam just winked and bumped their cups together before gulping down half his drink. Ronan sipped idly at his own and rubbed soothingly at Adam’s thumb.

Adam opened his mouth to say something after a second, his eyes aflame, but before he could get a word out he was interrupted by Tad Carruthers’ booming voice in the kitchen doorway.

“Adam Parrish!” Tad called out, smacking a hand against the top of the door frame as he walked under it. He was, as Adam had predicted, dressed in a quote-unquote “sexy” doctor outfit that offended nine out of ten people who set eyes on it. “I was hoping you’d make it.”

Adam’s hand tensed in Ronan’s, but he didn’t pull back. “Said I’d be here,” he said, shouted, to be heard over the chorus of an exceptionally shitty rap song. He took another long sip from his cup.

Tad’s smile went from flirty to downright predatory as he looked Adam up and down slowly, sensually, perfectly ignoring the way he was gripping Ronan’s hand like a vice. “You look good,” he said, taking a step closer. “Captain America is your look. Move over, Chris Evans.”

It was obvious that Adam was struggling to keep his voice friendly as he said, “Thanks, man,” over the rim of his cup. “I’m inclined to say that Ronan’s Winter Soldier outfit puts me to shame, though.” He glanced up and over at Ronan and held his gaze even as Tad continued to speak.

“Lynch,” said Tad, an icy acknowledgment of Adam’s date at last. “It’s alright. I’ve seen better.” Adam still didn’t look away from Ronan as Tad came closer, reached over Adam’s shoulder for a cup. “What’s your poison tonight, Adam?”

“Lemonade,” said Adam absently. His grip on Ronan’s hand was less incessant now, less frenzied, but still firm. “Designated driver.”

Tad made a _tsk_ noise that vaguely made Ronan want to put his fist through his face. “I guess that’s the deal when you’re dating Lynch,” he said, his tone overly disappointed. 

“Guess so.” Adam chugged the rest of his lemonade and threw his disposable cup into the sink. “See ya later,” he said as he pulled Ronan out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance.

As soon as they were in the hallway, Ronan groaned deep in his chest. “Fuck, I hate that guy,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure Adam would be able to hear him. He didn’t care. Adam knew that he hated Tad, and Adam hated him as well, so everything was right in the world. Everything _except_ for the creepy-crawly feeling Ronan still had from the way Tad had looked at Adam.

“Me too,” said Adam, opening a door at the end of the hallway and reaching to the side to hit a light switch. A single, naked lightbulb burst to life above them, illuminating a set of narrow, rickety stairs disappearing beneath them. Any normal person would have turned around at the mere suggestion of a creepy basement in Tad Carruthers’ house, but Ronan had long since learned that Adam Parrish was not a normal person. Like a man on a mission, Adam led him down the stairs and around a corner.

Whatever Ronan had been expecting — a dungeon, a The Conjuring-esque haunted cellar, an exact replica of the basement from That 70’s Show — this was not it. The basement was, he thought suspiciously, perfectly normal. The floor was cement and the walls were cinder block, but it was no dungeon. A washer and dryer sat against the wall next to a refrigerator, and there were stacks of boxes here and there labelled in Sharpie as _TAD’S BABY CLOTHES_ and _CROCHETING SUPPLIES_. There was a ping-pong table without a net, a television presumably from the 1980’s, and a very worn, very orange couch smack dab in the middle of the room. This was what Adam made a beeline for; he threw himself down on the ratty cushions and finally released Ronan’s hand, although Ronan found himself wishing they still had that remaining point of contact as he sat down on the opposite end of the sofa from Adam.

“How’d you know this was here?” asked Ronan. He turned his head this way and that, popping his neck, as Adam dropped his Captain America shield on the floor and settled back even further into the couch.

Adam hummed. Ronan could hear him better now, the music just a muffled thudding above them. “In middle school,” Adam said, and when Ronan looked at him, his eyes were closed, “Tad would have his parties down here.”

A memory surfaced in Ronan’s brain, so suddenly and aggressively that he jolted. Beside him, Adam cracked one eye open warily. “Fuck.” Ronan smacked himself in the forehead with the palm of his right hand. “I remember that now.”

“You do?” Now Adam sounded as wary as he looked, which was to say very wary. “What do you remember?”

Ronan frowned. He took a large drink of the lemonade-and-vodka mixture that Adam had so generously poured him, and then frowned harder at the way it burned his throat. He hadn’t had vodka in a hot minute, preferring instead the easy buzz of being beer-drunk, but he took another sip anyway. “I remember,” he said, very carefully, “playing spin-the-bottle. I remember kissing you.”

Adam exhaled heavily through his nose, not really a sigh but not a normal breath, either. “The kiss that made you fall in love with me,” he said quietly, tipping his head back against the top of the couch. “You were very poetic about it. In the letter, I mean.”

“That was a long time ago,” Ronan said, because he could not think of anything else to say.

“It was,” Adam agreed. He paused for a moment, like he was considering the merits of what he was about to say, and then decided to go for it. “That was my first kiss, you know.”

Ronan leaned his head back in a mirror image of Adam, training his eyes on the cobwebs in the rafters above them. “Mine, too,” he admitted.

He didn’t even have to turn his head to know that Adam was smiling that small, rueful smile he did sometimes. “It was a good first kiss,” Adam said. “The poeticism was fair. Our last kiss wasn’t exactly sonnet-worthy, though.”

With a snort, Ronan tilted his head so that he was facing Adam. “Guess not.”

Adam turned to meet his gaze. “You think we’ll ever have another poetic kiss?” he asked, but it sounded more like an answer than a question.

“We could,” Ronan breathed, but it was more of a question than an answer. 

Slowly, carefully, Adam raised a hand and brought it to the side of Ronan’s face. He was gentle as he rested his palm against Ronan’s cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of his lips. His pinky and ring finger ran along the lines of his jaw, dipped beneath his ear, and Ronan felt himself sigh at the touch. Adam’s eyes were on his, intense as always, but there was something else there, too; vulnerability. Openness. He kept them open as he leaned forward, closer, closer, closer, only allowing them to flutter shut as his lips met Ronan’s.

Their first kiss had been sloppy. It had been kind of wet, in a weird way, and clumsy, too. It had been in front of a dozen middle-schoolers, just a part of a game, but there had been something about the fumbling awkwardness that had been charming. It had been Ronan’s storybook moment, and he had held onto it far longer than he should have, all things considered, but it had been strange and it had been nice and it had been _his_.

Their second kiss had been rushed. It had been Ronan’s hands on Adam’s face, Adam motionless where he stood, still clutching his love letter, in the middle of the track. It had been Ronan’s brain rebooting, pulling away the moment Adam did something that even resembled reciprocating, Gansey’s shocked expression a few yards away. Ronan had spent the past several weeks trying to erase it from his mind, because it was uncomfortable and fast and it made him feel like a bad person.

But this kiss, this third kiss, was perfect. It was what the first kiss wished it could be, what Ronan had made the first kiss into in his love letter to Adam. This third kiss was soft and sweet, Adam’s free hand finding Ronan’s and twisting their fingers together. It was closed eyes and the rising and falling of chests, it was eyelashes fluttering against cheeks and noses bumping as angles were adjusted. It was Ronan’s tongue at the seam of Adam’s lips, and the parting of lips, the exchanging of breaths. It was Ronan’s hand cupping the back of Adam’s neck, toying with the short hairs at his nape, the small contented noise from the back of Adam’s throat. This kiss, this third kiss, Ronan thought weakly, was everything.

And then, because Ronan’s life had obviously become a movie, they were interrupted by a very familiar, very amused, very agitated voice. “Uh, guys?” said Blue Sargent from the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I hate to interrupt, but, uh. Well. There’s something going on upstairs.”

It was Adam who pulled away first, because it was always going to be Adam. His cheeks were tinged red, but he was smiling as he removed his hand from Ronan’s cheek and untangled their fingers. He stood, slowly, like he wasn’t sure just how balanced he would be, and that was when Ronan’s brain cleared and he realized that the music had stopped playing upstairs. It was replaced by another noise: crazed shouting. He stood quickly.

“Who is it?” Adam asked Blue, which struck Ronan as an odd first question to ask. He might’ve chosen _what is it?_ before moving on to who, but then again, he hadn’t been to nearly as many of these parties as Adam had.

Blue, looking fierce even shy of five feet tall and dressed as a butterfly, answered Adam’s question without looking at him. “Kavinsky,” she said, her voice acidic. Judging by the look on Adam’s face, that went without saying. Reluctantly, she added, “and Gansey.”

“Shit,” said Ronan. In a fraction of a second, he was sprinting up the stairs just behind Adam. Blue was hot on his heels.

There were down the hallway and shoving through the crowd before Ronan had formulated a plan. He knew one thing, and one thing only: Kavinsky could kill Gansey. Hell, Kavinsky _would_ kill Gansey, if he had the chance, if nobody stepped in. K was the only person other than Declan who could pin Ronan in a fight. He’d destroy Gansey without breaking a sweat.

“Aw, come on, Dick.” They had to be close to the edge of the crowd; Kavinsky’s sneer was audible from where Ronan elbowed past a very smug-looking Tad Carruthers. “At least make it _fun._

Adam pushed past the front row of the crowd first. In the gap he left, Ronan had a perfect view of Gansey, face bloodied, swaying on his feet in front of Kavinsky. And Kavinsky, his knuckles busted, a horrible smile on his face.

He pulled back his fist. 

Ronan wasn’t going to get there in time.

“Stop!” Adam yelled, and he threw himself in front of Gansey.

Kavinsky’s fist collided with Adam’s face.

Time slowed — no, it stopped. The entire world seemed to freeze, everything except for Adam hitting the ground and Kavinsky mouthing _I didn’t mean to_ and Ronan launching himself at K with the force of his entire body.

But then it wasn’t Kavinsky’s face in his, it was Adam’s, and Ronan was pulling back so quickly he would have fallen over backwards if Adam hadn’t reached out to steady him. All Ronan could hear was the rushing of his own blood in his ears, and he knew Adam was talking but he couldn’t understand what he was saying. He focused on Adam’s lips. _Don’t, Ronan, don’t. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go._

Behind Adam, Kavinsky was still standing in the middle of the room, his own expression shocked. He was holding the palm of his left hand against the bloody knuckles of his right, shaking his head and mouthing — maybe saying, maybe _screaming_ , it wasn’t like Ronan could hear — _I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to._ A prayer. A mantra. A few feet away, Blue was wrapping an arm around Gansey’s waist gingerly and guiding him out of the house. Adam and Ronan followed, Adam holding his left hand to his nose, which was bleeding profusely.

They were outside before Ronan realized that he was holding Adam’s free hand in his. They were halfway down the block when they stopped so Adam could exchange a few words with Blue and Gansey as Blue helped Gansey into the passenger seat of his own car, snatching the key ring from his hands. Ronan watched numbly as she pressed a soft hand to the side of Adam’s face and said something, her gaze worried, and Adam was nodding and saying something back and then he was walking away, pulling Ronan along with him. Adam was unlocking the Beemer when Ronan realized he could hear again.

“What the fuck just happened?” Ronan’s voice was rough. Adam released his hand and opened the passenger door for him wordlessly, still trying (and failing, mostly) to staunch the flow of blood coming from his nose. Blood streamed over his lips, his chin, down his neck to pool in his collarbones. If it bothered him badly, he didn’t let on. He guided Ronan into the seat and buckled his seatbelt for him before crossing to the other side of the BMW and sliding into the driver’s seat.

Adam went through the motions of starting the car, shifting gears, pulling out of the parking lot. “I’m getting blood everywhere,” he said as he turned onto the street. “I’m sorry about that.” True to his word, he smeared blood on the steering wheel as he turned a corner without signaling. 

“What,” Ronan breathed, “the fuck,” a little louder, “just _happened_?” He turned fully in his seat to face Adam, who was staring straight ahead. When Adam didn’t answer, Ronan slammed his palm against the dashboard. “Parrish. What the _fuck_?”

“Please don’t yell at me,” said Adam in a voice devoid of all emotion. His nosebleed was even heavier now, but he didn’t have a spare hand to cover his face, so blood just dripped freely into his lap. “I appreciate you not fighting anybody tonight. I really do.”

Ronan was so furious that he felt like he was on fire. Words clawed their way out of his throat in outraged bursts. “Why did you fucking take that hit? Why didn’t you let me fucking fuck Kavinsky up? Why was he beating the shit out of Gansey anyway? What the fuck just happened?”

Behind the wheel, Adam was deadly calm. Somehow, it just made Ronan angrier. “ _What just happened_ ,” Adam sighed, flicking the blinker less than a second before making a sharp turn, “was a tradition. Every Halloween, Kavinsky picks someone to fight at the Halloween party, and then he wipes the floor with them.” His voice was neutral until he added, vehemently, “It shouldn’t have been Gansey.”

“So, what, every year you guys all just stand aside and let Kavinsky give someone fucking brain damage?” For the first time in his life, Ronan understood the phrase _seeing red_. “What the fuck?”

Adam shook his head as he shifted gears. “Usually, the person volunteers. They _want_ to fight K. Everyone thinks they’re the person who’s gonna finally knock him on his ass. And he always stops when the person hits the ground.” He accelerated a bit, pushing the speedometer five miles above the limit. “We both know Gansey didn’t volunteer for shit.”

“Obviously,” Ronan snapped, even though he and Adam were on the same side. “But seriously, Parrish, why the _fuck_ did you take that hit?”

Adam swallowed, hard, and blood continued to stream down his throat. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted after a second, and something about his voice made it seem like he was embarrassed. “There wasn’t time to, like, list the pros and cons. I saw K raise his fist, and I saw Gansey bleeding, and I…” He trailed off, glaring at the road with a sort of intensity that would have frightened Ronan had it been directed at him. Adam was quiet for so long that Ronan didn’t think he would continue, but then he said, voice distant, “I didn’t think he’d hit me.”

Ronan’s heart shattered in his chest. He couldn’t think of anything to say, and so he didn’t, but he continued to watch as Adam shifted gears and seemed to put together another sentence in his head.

“I thought he would stop.” There was that voice again, emotionless, detached. Adam stopped at a red light and the way it colored his face, illuminated the blood everywhere, was ghastly. Ronan couldn’t look away. “I thought he would see me in time, and he would stop. If I had known he would hit me, I’d like to think I still would have done it, but I’m not sure.”

It was horrible. Everything was horrible. Ronan’s hands were shaking with how much they wanted to grab Kavinsky by the back of the head and slam his face into a wall. He clenched them into fists, let the sensation of fingernails digging into his palm ground him. “You should’ve let me hit him,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound like his own.

Again, Adam shook his head, this time more furiously. “No. It wouldn’t have helped. In fact, it would have made everything worse.” Ronan couldn’t really imagine things possibly going worse than they had. Nothing was worse than half of Adam’s blood volume streaming out of his face. “And you promised that you wouldn’t fight anyone.”

“Yeah, but that was before Kavinsky went all fight club on you two.”

Strangely, Adam smiled. He pulled the Beemer smoothly into Ronan’s driveway, put it in park, and then turned off the car. His teeth were red when he turned to Ronan and said, “I _knew_ you liked that movie.”

The cogs in Ronan’s brain were turning at half-speed. He blinked a few times, then leveled Adam with a heatless glare. “That’s really what you’re getting out of this conversation?” he deadpanned.

Adam just pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Ronan. They were sticky with blood. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I had a blast,” Adam said as he opened his door and got out. “And now, I am going to go home and stick a coffee filter or two up my nose.”

“No,” Ronan objected before he knew what he was saying. He unbuckled his seatbelt and slid out of the car after Adam. “Jesus, Parrish, you look like fuckin’ Carrie at the prom. If you don’t stop bleeding soon, you’re gonna die.”

“Not true.”

Ronan frowned at him over the roof of the Beemer. “Just stay here tonight, God. You probably got your brain knocked loose in that punch, anyway.”

“Also not true.”

“Ugh, you want the truth? Here: it’s late. You just took a hell of a punch to the face. You’re covered in god damn Sally Hardesty levels of blood. Your car is a piece of shit. I want you to stay here tonight.” Ronan hadn’t meant for that last sentence to leave his lips, but once it was out there, there was nothing he could do. He just hoped that Adam couldn’t make out his blush in the dim glow of the security light above the garage door. “Need I go on?”

Adam’s face was unreadable. “You really think your mom’s gonna be okay with your boyfriend spending the night?”

God, Ronan had never been happier to not hear the word ‘fake’ before ‘boyfriend’ in his life.

“I’ll just tell her what happened,” he said with a shrug. “She’ll probably shine a flashlight in your eyes or whatever to make sure you don’t have a concussion, and then she’ll give you clean clothes while she washes your now _very_ characteristically-bloodied Captain America suit. She’ll probably feed you dinner and tuck you in, while she’s at it.” His tone was sarcastic, but his words were true enough. It was barely nine PM; Aurora was most definitely still awake. And there was no way in _hell_ she would turn away any version of Adam Parrish, let alone an Adam Parrish who had just taken a hit defending Aurora’s honorary fourth son and was literally covered in his own blood.

With a resigned sigh, Adam deflated slightly. “Fine,” he said, rapping two knuckles against the roof of the Beemer. Ronan was positive there would be a bloodstain there in the morning. He didn’t care. He led the way up the front steps and inside the house.

“Mom?” Ronan called from the entryway as he shut and locked the door behind Adam. Matthew was probably still out, but he had a key. Probably. Ronan had bigger fish to fry. “Hey, Mom, could you come here a sec?”

A movie was obviously playing in the family room, but the sound stopped as Aurora presumably paused whatever she was watching to come investigate. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, her eyes widened comically. “Adam, honey,” she gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth. She recovered quickly enough; her hand dropped away, her shoulders squared, and her lips pursed into a determined line. Once upon a time, before opening her own private practice, she had been a trauma surgeon. “Kitchen. Both of you. Now.” She turned on her heel and padded into the kitchen in sock feet.

Adam was probably perfectly capable of walking on his own, since he had made it all the way from Tad’s house to the car and then from the car into Ronan’s house without any trouble, but that did not stop Ronan from snaking an arm around Adam’s waist and guiding him into the kitchen. In the thirty seconds it took them to get there, Aurora had already turned on the lights and retrieved a first-aid kit, and she was now at the sink washing her hands. “Sit down,” she said, and Adam complied, sinking into the chair she dragged in from the dining room. Aurora turned around as she toweled off her hands. “Ronan, go find Adam some clean clothes, my love.” 

Ronan left the room without another word, trotting up the stairs in a daze. His hands were still shaking. He still wanted to bash K’s face in. There was blood on his fingers, his palms, the shoulder of his outfit. He couldn’t stand it. He slammed the door of his bedroom open and pulled violently at the straps of his costume, the sound of fabric tearing satisfying in his ears. He pulled and ripped until the shirt was off, and then he was tripping out of the boots and the pants, pulling things out of drawers at random to re-dress himself and find an outfit for Adam. Once he was clothed in a clean shirt and sweatpants and he had a matching ensemble for Adam, he headed back downstairs, feeling a touch calmer for having destroyed something.

Aurora was cleaning the blood from Adam’s face when Ronan returned. Before he could ask a single question, she was updating him. “He doesn’t have a concussion, and the bleeding’s stopped. The nose is fractured, but it doesn’t need to be set. My biggest concern is getting this outfit treated and in the wash before it stains.”

Adam smiled at Aurora then, the lines between his teeth still bloody. “I’m not that worried about it,” he assured her as she continued to dab at the streaks of blood at his throat. “I don’t really see myself wearing this very often.”

Aurora shook her head. “Still,” she sighed, and then she stood up straight. “You’ll probably be more comfortable finishing washing up in the shower.” He nodded and stood, and then stopped when she put a comforting hand on his elbow. “There’s clean towels in the cabinet, and a spare toothbrush in the drawer. Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be in the living room. I’ll get you set up for the night.” He nodded again and then disappeared into the hallway.

As soon as Adam was out of earshot, Aurora rounded on Ronan. “What the hell happened at this party?” she demanded, aiming a _look_ at him even as she walked to the sink and dropped the cloth she had been using on Adam into the basin. She turned the water on and began to scrub at her hands, lathering them with dish soap. “Well?”

Ronan did not want to tell his mother the truth, but not for the reasons that one might think. He wasn’t worried about getting in trouble or hurting her impression of Adam; he was worried about ruining her impression of Kavinsky. Almost immediately, however, his brain replayed the sight of Kavinsky hitting Adam, and all of Ronan’s protective instincts for his old friend vanished. “We were in the basement and we heard shouting. Blue said that Kavinsky was fighting Gansey.” Aurora’s brows furrowed, but she remained silent as Ronan continued his explanation. “We ran upstairs and Adam was ahead of me. He saw Gansey standing there all bloody, and Kavinsky pulling back his fist, and he didn’t think. He just threw himself between them.” The story was pouring out of him and he couldn’t stop it. He didn’t _want_ to stop it. The childish need to have a parent kiss you better pervaded his thoughts. He wanted his mother’s comfort, he wanted his father’s comfort, he wanted Declan and Matthew on either side of him, holding him up. He hated himself for wanting his family’s love and comfort. Hated himself more for wanting it when he wasn’t the one who was hurt. “And then he was bleeding everywhere, and Gansey was bleeding everywhere, and K was just standing there. I was just a second too late to stop it. I was a second too late.” It kept replaying in his mind, over and over. “I would have hurt him. I would have hurt him, Mom, except then Adam was pushing me back and dragging me out of the house and he was bleeding everywhere and I—” His voice cracked and he turned away slightly, unable to meet Aurora’s eye anymore. “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, Aurora turned off the faucet and dried her hands on a clean towel nearby. Then she took her son by the shoulders and pulled him into a fierce hug. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said firmly into his shirt, holding him tightly until he stopped shaking. Then she sighed and leaned back against the counter, gripping it tightly in her hands. “So you’re saying Joseph did this?”

For a fraction of a second, Ronan saw red again. “Yes.”

Aurora was frowning. “Adam should press charges,” she said. The set of her mouth was dangerous. 

“He won’t.”

“But he should,” she insisted, and she pushed off of the counter. “I should talk to him, and then—”

“Don’t.” Ronan didn’t interrupt his mother very often, but there was no point in letting her go down this route. “He won’t do it. He doesn’t — he doesn’t have a support system, not like me or Gansey. He lives by himself. He works three jobs, and he studies all night, and he plays lacrosse. He’s got so much on his plate. He’s not gonna add a trial.”

Aurora sighed and sagged against the side of the refrigerator. “He lives by himself?” she repeated.

Ronan grimaced. He had officially revealed too much information (information that wasn’t even his to share) and now he was just making everything worse. Just like Adam had predicted. “Don’t tell him I told you that,” he said immediately, bringing his wrist to his mouth. He bit down on a leather bracelet. “I don’t really know the whole story, but yeah. He has an apartment all by himself. Please don’t be weird about it.”

“Why would I be weird about it?” Aurora asked in a voice that proved Ronan’s point exactly. She turned away and headed for the other room. 

Without really thinking about it, Ronan crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to rummage around in it. He hadn’t eaten since lunch that day, and while he didn’t really have an appetite, he also knew that he really needed to put some food in his body before it just gave way beneath him. He was still pushing Tupperware containers around absentmindedly when he heard footsteps approaching. He gave one cursory glance over his shoulder and then froze, blinked, and turned all the way around.

Adam was there, grabbing the stack of clean clothes off the island counter. He wore nothing but a white towel knotted at his hips, and he was still fresh and dewy from the shower. “Sorry,” he murmured, possibly mistaking Ronan’s stunned silence for annoyance. “Forgot to bring these with me.” He turned to leave and then caught a better glimpse of Ronan’s facial expression and paused. Even with pink staining his face and neck, his lips were curled into a playful smirk. “You good?” 

“Uh huh,” said Ronan eloquently. He cleared his throat. “I’m good. I’m fine. Are you, um, are you hungry? I was just grabbing a snack. I can get you something.”

Adam shook his head, his lips parting in a lopsided grin. “I’m good, but thanks,” he said before padding out of the kitchen once again. Ronan groaned and pressed his forehead against the top edge of the refrigerator in despair before grabbing two pudding cups from the bottom shelf.

When he entered the family room, his right hand holding two pudding cups and his left hand holding two spoons, Adam was standing behind the couch, leaning against it, engaged in quiet conversation with Aurora. They both looked up as Ronan approached. “I was just telling Adam that he could sleep in Declan’s room,” she said with a smile. She stood and stretched for a second. “Now, I’m going to go treat your clothes.” She left the room.

Ronan walked up beside Adam and kicked the side of his food gently. He held out a pudding cup and Adam accepted, then took a spoon. Ronan nodded his head in the direction of the stairs wordlessly and they both ambled up to the second floor, Ronan leading the way into his bedroom.

The look on Adam’s face was amused when he caught sight of the ruined Winter Soldier costume on the floor. “Technical difficulties?” he mused as he sat down on the foot of Ronan’s bed cross-legged. Ronan just rolled his eyes and sat down opposite of him, peeling the lid from his pudding cup. 

“You okay?” Ronan asked after a second.

Adam’s face hardened slightly. It was a miniscule change, but it was drastic enough for Ronan to notice. “I’m fine,” Adam said, opening his own pudding cup and licking the lid. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

Adam shrugged. He shoved a spoonful of pudding into his mouth and then exhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes set on a patch of blanket. “Gansey’ll be okay. Blue was taking him back to her place. Her mom and aunts will patch him up fine.”

The question left Ronan’s lips before he could rephrase it. “You know the witches?”

“I wouldn’t call them that, at least to their faces,” Adam snickered, stirring his spoon idly. “But yeah. They’ve always been good to me, even when Blue and I were…” He stuck the spoon in his mouth rather than finish his sentence.

“I forgot you and Blue were a thing,” Ronan said. “I didn’t know you guys were still friends.”

Adam frowned. “We’re not. Not really, anyway. But we’re kinda… family. Even when we’re not on the best of terms, we still love each other.” Ronan raised an eyebrow, and Adam rushed to explain himself. “Not like that. I just said, we’re like family. The women of Fox Way, they’re the only real family I have.”

“Well, that’s all about to change,” said Ronan darkly. He ate a dollop of pudding. “My mom is definitely adopting you as her honorary fifth son as we speak. She loves you. She’d legally adopt you if she could.”

At that, Adam smiled. “I like your mom,” he said softly, thinking. He finished his pudding and sighed. “Thank you for not fighting anybody,” he said for the second time that night. “I know it sounds weird, but it means a lot to me.”

It _did_ sound weird, but Ronan didn’t care. “Well, I mean, you didn’t really give me a choice, but.” He shrugged halfheartedly. “I still don’t get why you took that punch for Gansey, though.”

“It wasn’t _for Gansey_ , specifically. It was, I dunno, it’s like K is my responsibility. It felt like he was sending me a message, so I took the hit.”

For some reason this infuriated Ronan. He gripped his spoon tighter in his right hand. “That piece of shit is not your responsibility, Parrish. You shouldn’t take a hit because you feel guilty. That wasn’t your fucking fault.”

Adam just shook his head slightly and climbed off the bed. “I’m tired,” he said, the _of discussing this with you_ part of his sentence going unsaid. “Which room is Declan’s?”

“Right across the hall, next to the bathroom,” said Ronan curtly. 

“Thanks.” Adam stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. At the last second, he paused. “Goodnight, Ronan,” he said, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Ronan had a nightmare that night.

Well, the phrase _a nightmare_ was gracious. It was more like a dozen nightmares, dissolving into one another, bleeding in and out. It was the memory of finding his father’s body combined with the dream about Matthew dying mixed in with the dream of Declan dying, with a bit of Aurora dying sprinkled in for variation. It was Adam’s blood, not from a well-placed punch to the face but from a stab wound that Ronan had caused. It was gigantic black bird-like night horrors descending on him from every angle, and a black mask stuck to Matthew’s face, and Joseph Kavinsky laughing.

He woke with a strangled sound, sitting bolt upright in bed.

In the year after his father’s murder, Ronan had had nightmares nearly every night. His only reprieve were the nights when he didn’t sleep at all, opting instead to sneak out and go drag-racing or drinking to numb himself. When the nightmares came, he would awake with that childish need for comfort. He would slip into Declan’s room and lie down beside him, atop the comforter, and Declan would just roll over and sling an arm around him as if to say _I’ve got you, Ronan_.

Ronan did not think. He slid out of bed and headed across the hall.

Declan’s door was unlocked, and the lamp beside his bed was still on. Adam was awake, despite the late hour, sitting up in the bed with his back to the headboard, a paperback book in his hand. In the dim yellow glow of the lamplight, his nose didn’t look broken, the pink bloodstains on his face were invisible. Even though it was Declan’s room and he was very much _not Declan_ , he looked perfectly in place. “Ronan?” he asked quietly.

Ronan closed the door behind him and scrubbed a hand across his tired face. His jaw was scruffy with stubble beneath his palm. There were so many things he wanted to say, and he could say none of them. Instead, he just crawled onto the bed, stretched out on top of the comforter, and leaned his head back against the pillow. 

Slowly, Adam closed his book and set it on the bedside table. He turned slightly to look at Ronan and carefully, cautiously, he lifted a hand to run his thumb over Ronan’s cheekbone. Ronan remained still beneath his touch, inhaling shakily.

“Ronan,” Adam said again, an answer to his own question.

Wordlessly, Ronan rolled over onto his side, facing away from Adam. He took Adam’s hand in his and pulled it over his shoulders, and there was a moment where Adam froze, and Ronan thought _oh God oh no I was wrong I was wrong I was wrong_ , and then Adam was shifting and readjusting until he was laying on his side just behind Ronan, an arm draped around his waist, his forehead pressed to the nape of Ronan’s neck.

“Is this okay?” asked Adam in a whisper.

Ronan let out a light sigh. “Mhm,” he hummed, and just like that, he was asleep again.

The next morning, Adam was gone.

Ronan had known it would happen, he had predicted waking up alone in Declan’s bed with a mild hangover and a broken heart. That didn’t make it hurt any less, though. He slid off the bed — he had never made it under the covers during the night — and meandered into the bathroom at the end of the hallway to shower and brush his teeth. As he stared himself down in the foggy mirror afterwards, one thought played over and over in his mind: _It was real. It happened._ He wiped the steam away with one steady hand and returned to his bedroom to get dressed for the day.

When he finally made his way down the stairs, something dark on the floor in the entryway caught his eye: several round droplets of something dark red, nearly black. Dried blood. _Adam’s_ dried blood. Ronan heard the sound of knuckles colliding with Adam’s face in the back of his mind and he shook his head, averted his eyes, and headed for the kitchen.

There was noise coming from the kitchen, soft voices and the sounds of somebody cooking. Aurora’s laugh, clear and joyful. A whisk in a pan. Matthew humming something that sounded vaguely like one of their dad’s old Celtic records. The low timbre of a masculine voice murmuring something that made both Aurora and Matthew giggle happily.

Adam?

“Oh, careful, Matt,” he said.

Adam.

Ronan stepped into the kitchen and surveyed the damage — Matthew covered nearly head-to-toe in flour, Aurora’s hair pulled back but dusty, Adam in an apron freshly stained with something cream-colored. The counters were covered in bowls and pans and dirty utensils, everything coated in a generous dusting of white, but Adam looked self-assured as he stirred something in a pan. Aurora stood at the sink, washing a glass measuring cup, and Matthew sat on top of the island counter, watching everything happen around him. He was the first person to notice Ronan’s entrance.

“Ronan!” he exclaimed, jumping down from his perch to throw his arms around his brother. “Happy birthday!”

Aurora immediately turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on a nearby towel. “Ronan, my love,” she said with a smile, approaching her sons and coming up behind Matthew to hug them both. “Good morning. Happy birthday.”

Ronan returned both of the hugs wholeheartedly, crushing his mother and younger brother to him. “Good morning,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by Matthew’s unruly curls in his face. He raised his eyebrows at Adam over Matthew’s head. “How’re you feeling, Parrish?”

Still standing in front of the oven, Adam gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Never better,” he said, but it was apparent by the look in his eyes that it was at least a partial lie. “Happy birthday, Lynch.”

They kicked Ronan out of the kitchen while they finished making his birthday breakfast. It was a tradition in the Lynch household that each member of the family got a special breakfast on their birthday. For Niall, it had been a full Irish breakfast, completely authentic, made mostly by Ronan and Declan (who were both perfectionists in the kitchen). For Aurora, it was two red velvet cupcakes to satisfy her sweet tooth and as much bacon as her plate could hold. Declan preferred something more sensible, an omelet with vegetables and wheat toast (only Ronan was allowed to make the omelet, only Matthew was allowed to toast the bread, only Declan enjoyed it). Matthew was a fan of s’mores PopTarts with whipped cream, a spectacularly unhealthy combination that Aurora banned the rest of the year and Matthew snuck in the middle of the night when he thought nobody would know. And for Ronan, it was a stack of fluffy homemade waffles, freshly-cut strawberries, and fried ham. Before Niall’s death, he had been the sole chef on the mornings of Ronan’s birthday. Afterwards, it had been Declan. This was the first year that neither of them were present, and Ronan’s heart ached for them. The corners of his eyes burned, and he shoved the sadness away. He could still hear Adam laughing and talking with Aurora and Matthew in the other room, and if he focused on it hard enough, it was everything.

It wasn’t very long before Adam came to get him from the family room. “C’mon, Lynch,” he said with a soft smile and a jerk of his head. Ronan wished he would hold his hand out, like he had outside of Tad’s house the night before. He didn’t. Ronan followed him into the dining room, where Aurora and Matthew waited at the table with full plates and luminescent grins.

“Happy birthday!” they cheered again in unison, and Ronan noticed another voice cut in with theirs. In front of Declan’s seat at the table sat an open laptop, and on its screen was Declan Lynch’s smiling face. Ronan blinking at the red light of the webcam. It hit him all at once just how much he missed his brother.

“Declan,” Ronan said, frozen in the doorway. “It’s… what time is it there?” 

Declan looked down, presumably at his watch. “Two P.M.,” he said, and when he shifted his camera slightly, Ronan noticed that he had a plate of waffles on his table all the way in Ireland. The thought made him heartsick. He nodded and made his way to his seat across from Declan, mind strangely blank.

Adam sat down in the seat beside him wordlessly, but he hadn’t even picked up his fork before Declan’s voice was crackling over the laptop speakers again. “Wait, is that Adam Parrish?” he asked, and Ronan and Adam both froze. Adam’s eyes darted from the laptop to Aurora to Ronan and then back again, whereas Ronan’s gaze stuck deliberately on the pile of waffles in front of him. Shit. He had made it this long without having to tell Declan anything, without including him in the lie, and now it was all over. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Yeah,” said Adam, deceptively casual. “Hey, Declan. How’s college treatin’ ya?” 

Declan furrowed his brows at Adam through the laptop screen. “Yeah, it’s good,” he said dismissively. “I didn’t know you were friends with Ronan.”

“Friends?” said Matthew through a mouthful of waffles. “They’re—”

“Yeah,” Adam cut in, stabbing a piece of strawberry a bit more aggressively than was necessary. “Yeah, it’s kinda new. So, Ronan says you’re majoring in international business. That must be really interesting to study, especially abroad. I’m actually working on this assignment in my marketing class and I was wondering if…” 

As Adam cleanly re-routed the discussion, Ronan tuned out his voice and dove into his breakfast. He wanted to be annoyed that he was missing out on conversation time with his older brother, but really he didn’t have it in him to be anything other than grateful for Adam’s spectacular deflection skills. Adam had saved him from having to lie to his brother. All was right in the world again.

Until, of course, they finally finished eating and Declan hung up to get some homework done and Adam volunteered to help Matthew clear the table. From her seat at the head of the table, Aurora arched one suspicious eyebrow at Ronan. He braced himself for impact.

“Declan doesn’t know that you and Adam are dating.” It was not a question but a statement. She tilted her head. “What are you afraid of?”

Leave it to Aurora to cut right down to the important stuff. She had always been more intuitive than anyone liked to give her credit for. “I’m afraid,” he paused. He had already lied to Aurora so much; he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. For once, he could give her the truth, or at least some version of it. “I’m afraid of everything.”

Aurora’s face softened. “Oh, my love,” she said gently, reaching out to take his hands in hers. “You know that your brother loves you with his entire heart, right?”

Ronan swallowed thickly and squeezed his mother’s hand. “Yeah, of course.”

“He just wants you to be happy.” She sighed and let go of his hand, standing up. “If you don’t want him to know, I won’t tell him. But I don’t think you need to be afraid.” She reached over to pat him on the shoulder and then left the room.

In the hallway, Ronan could hear Adam and Aurora exchanging a few words. Then there were footsteps and Adam was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, arms folded over his chest, looking somewhere over Ronan’s head. “I’ve got two shifts today. First one’s in an hour. I just wanted to say happy birthday before I left.” That fake calm was still there, his words unnaturally steady. Ronan stood and took a few steps toward him; Adam took a step back.

“Adam,” said Ronan, frowning. “Are we okay?”

Adam smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re perfect,” he said, but it was not convincing. “Happy birthday, Lynch.” He knocked two knuckles against the wall, and then he was gone.

Matthew immediately appeared in the hallway. “Is it true that Gansey got the shit beat out of him at the Halloween party last night?” he asked, his face excited but his voice giving away just how worried he really was.

Ronan rolled his eyes at his younger brother. “Don’t fucking swear,” he said, and he retreated up the stairs. When he got to his room he slammed his door and threw himself down on the bed, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Was Adam angry with him? Why? Was it the kiss, the fight, him crawling into Declan’s bed like a scared child?

His downward spiral was interrupted by the chime of his phone.

His cellphone was still on his nightstand, plugged into the charger, and he had several unread notifications from the past twelve hours. He flicked away news and Facebook and Netflix notifications, but one stood out: Instagram telling him that he had been tagged in a photo by @adam.parrish at eight PM the night before. He opened it immediately.

There they were, Adam holding up his Captain America shield and Ronan smoldering in his Winter Soldier outfit. It was not a stilted, awkward photo of two teenage boys smiling at the camera like wax figures; it was Adam’s face turned into Ronan’s ear, Ronan laughing and Adam smirking, their eyes warm and alight on each other. He remembered his mother’s gasp; _oh, that is the_ one.

He liked the photo and then scrolled down to read the caption. The words made his heart skip a beat (or several). 

_I’m with you till the end of the line._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i hope you enjoyed! in good news, i've already written half of the next chapter! in bad news, i wrote it before writing THIS chapter, so i'm gonna have to rework basically all of it. anyway, i hope you're all doing well and staying safe! hopefully i will see you soon!


	6. CHAPTER SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all!!! sorry it took me so long to update, i actually wrote two different versions of this chapter that would push the story in two different directions and i had to choose which one i thought i would be better in the long run. i hope you like it!

On the second day of November, Ronan almost crashed his car twice, and he _did_ crash it once.

He knew that it was his own fault. He had made a long, arduous series of terrible decisions, accumulating over months (and possibly years) to result in said car crash, and he could easily track them all if he wanted to. He did not want to. He just wanted to punch a wall.

His biggest mistake, he thought, was fake dating Adam Parrish. The more he thought about it, the more he understood how it was a catalyst for nearly all of his misfortunes in the past few weeks. He hated Adam. He hated Declan. He hated Gansey. He hated himself.

Ronan slammed his hand against the steering wheel. The side of his face felt warm; he raised a hand to his temple, and when he pulled it away, it was slick with blood. _Oh shit_ , he thought. _I crashed my fucking car._

Ronan Lynch had been driving for two years, and drag-racing for one-and-three-quarters. He was not a good driver, or a considerate driver, but he had always managed to keep his damn BMW on the road, at least. He had never so much as scratched the bumper. This car was his baby, the love of his life. It had been left to him in his father’s will, and it was his most prized possession, and it was fucking _totaled._

“Sir!” a voice called out somewhere from his left. A man, maybe. “Are you okay?” The voice seemed concerned. Ronan knew _he_ was concerned. There was smoke coming from the hood of his car. His car had never smoked before. He thought he should probably get out of the car. Instead, muscle memory took over, and his hand reached up to pull his tie the rest of the way off.

Somebody was pulling his door open. He thought vaguely that he should raise his hands, try to defend himself, but he had tired out his arms by untying his tie and he didn’t really have it in him. He barely managed to unbuckle his seatbelt before a man was upon him, speaking too quickly for Ronan to fully understand. He caught a few words like _light_ and _ambulance_ and _okay_ , but his brain didn’t really want to put them together, so he just closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“Sir,” the voice said again, more insistently at Ronan’s ear, and all he could do was groan in reply. Whoever this guy was, he was really fucking annoying, and Ronan just wanted him to either kill him or go away so at least he could get some rest. Instead, the man squeezed Ronan’s left bicep, and he forced his eyes open to give the guy a death glare. The man, middle-aged and dressed in a sweater and khakis, was not impressed. “Sir,” he repeated for the millionth time, “do you know what the date is?”

Ronan thought about it for a moment. Yes, he knew the date, because it was the day after his birthday, which was the day after Halloween, so that made today… “November 2nd,” he muttered, gritting his teeth. “It’s November 2nd.”

The man nodded. “Good. I’m Mr. Gray, can you tell me your name?” He was moving closer, trying to look into Ronan’s eyes, and Ronan instinctually turned his head away. There was something about this man that made him uneasy, although he couldn’t place it. 

Somewhere nearby, sirens were wailing. Ronan thought he could see red and blue strobing in his rearview mirror. “I’m Ronan,” he rasped, curling the fingers of his right hand into a fist. “Is my car ruined?”

A look crossed Mr. Gray’s face, somewhere between confusion and amusement. Ronan was sure he had seen this man before. “It’s fine,” Mr. Gray said, very calmly. He placed two fingers to the pulse point at Ronan’s neck, and Ronan flinched. 

“Mr. Lynch,” said Mr. Gray, very quietly. “You’re going to be alright.”

The fog in Ronan’s head cleared just enough for him to think, _I didn’t tell him my last name._ Ronan swung his fist.

Mr. Gray was gone.

The sirens were louder now, overwhelming, and Ronan watched through his rearview mirror as an ambulance and two cop cars pulled up near him. He heard voices shouting and chattering at each other. He wanted to get out of his car, he wanted to apologize to whoever he had hit, he wanted to chase down Mr. Gray and figure out where exactly they knew each other from.

Instead, his vision went black.

And then it was white.

Well, not white, exactly. More like pink. That awful pink of the insides of your eyelids when facing a bright light. Ronan’s head was throbbing. He wanted the inside of his eyelids to be black again. Stubbornly, they remained pink. He opened his eyes out of sheer annoyance.

“Ronan?” a muffled voice said from beside him. He turned his head slowly, awkwardly, and blinked a couple of times at his mother. Aurora Lynch surged forward in her chair, grabbing onto his hand with a strength that startled him. “Oh, there you are, my love.”

“Mom?” muttered Ronan groggily. His head felt like it was filled with cotton in the worst way, and his voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere else. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that he was in a hospital, but then other thoughts were flooding his brain and he had much bigger concerns. “Mom, I’m sorry. Who did I hit? Are they okay?”

There were no tears in Aurora’s eyes, but her lip was trembling; confusion spread across her face, followed closely by relief. “Oh, honey,” she said, and her voice was steady. She blinked a few times. “You didn’t hit anyone. Someone ran a red light and hit _you_. It wasn’t your fault.”

A weight was lifted from Ronan’s shoulders. He sighed, and it hurt his head, so he groaned. “Fuck,” he murmured, and then he immediately added, “sorry.” He felt the instinctual need to lift a hand to rub at his face, but his arms felt inexplicably heavy, so it took him a moment. He felt the pull of an I.V. in the forearm of his left arm. “Still. Are they okay?”

Aurora’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “They fled the scene,” she said, her voice icier than Ronan had ever heard it. “The police got a description of the man and his car, but nobody took down the license plate number.” She rubbed at his hand soothingly. “Do you remember anything?”

Ronan thought for a moment. He had the vague idea of a face, somebody familiar but unplaceable, but the name he remembered was specific: Mr. Gray. And he remembered another specific detail: Mr. Gray had known him.

“My head hurts,” Ronan said to avoid telling a direct lie. 

Aurora’s brows furrowed, and she frowned deeply. It was such an out-of-place expression on her usually happy face that Ronan resented himself for putting it there. “I’m sorry, baby. You’ve got a pretty bad concussion. They’re gonna keep you here for observation overnight, okay?”

That was decidedly not okay, but there wasn’t much that Ronan could do about it. He swallowed thickly. “Okay, Mom,” he whispered. “Is Matthew here?”

At the mention of her youngest son, Aurora visibly brightened. “He is,” she replied, allowing herself a smile. “He’s in the waiting room right now. Would you like to see him?”

The answer to that question would always be a resounding _yes_. Ronan cracked a smile of his own. “You left him alone in the waiting room? That’s cold-blooded.”

Aurora’s face did something complicated. “He’s not alone,” she said slowly, and her eyes darted to the door and back, betraying her nerves. She stood and rubbed at her elbow awkwardly, working her way up to something, but Ronan lacked her general patience.

“Who is it, Mom?” he snapped, but the words came out more tired than aggravated. 

She inhaled and braced herself. “Adam,” she said after a moment, and she must not have noticed the way Ronan sighed in relief, because she continued, “I know you two are fighting, but he’s your boyfriend, and Matthew insisted on calling him, and—”

“Mom,” Ronan interrupted her, struggling with the button to elevate his upper body in the hospital bed. “It’s okay. I wanna see him.” Finally, a truth. “I wanna see Matthew first, though.”

Aurora smiled again, even brighter this time. “Of course. I’ll go get Matthew. I’ll be back in a sec.” She opened the door and disappeared through it, leaving it ajar behind her.

In her absence, the room silent aside from the steady beep of the monitor beside him, Ronan had a moment to think about what had happened. He was sure that, in his exhaustion and his anger, he had caused the accident — but apparently not. Somebody else had done it, and subsequently fled the scene — could that have been Mr. Gray? And if so, why would he have spoken to Ronan before leaving? Why leave so many witnesses? And, worse yet, he had _known_ Ronan, had known him to see him — how? Something wasn’t adding up. He needed to ask Declan. Declan knew everything.

Just then, Matthew burst into the room.

“Ronan!” he cried, and the volume of his voice sent a sharp pain through Ronan’s skull; Ronan tried and failed to repress his flinch. His younger, fairer brother gaped in horror as he realized what he had done. “Ronan,” he repeated guiltily, his voice much quieter. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Ronan shook his head, just to be met with more pain. “It’s okay, Matty,” he said, opening his arms to his brother. Matthew folded into the hug easily, warm and soft in Ronan’s arms as always. He was careful in his movements, terrified to hurt Ronan, but Ronan ignored the pain flaring up at his temple and reached up a hand to ruffle it through Matthew’s golden curls. “I’m fine. I’m gonna be fine. How are you holding up?”

Matthew blinked a few times and leaned back, dropping into the chair Aurora had occupied moments earlier. “I’m okay,” he said unconvincingly, shaking out his hair. He blew a stray curl out of his eyes. “I was just worried about you.”

Something deep in Ronan’s chest ached. He sucked in a breath and then held it, his jaw clenched, until his chest hurt. He exhaled through his nose. “I’m fine,” he said again, more forcefully this time, ignoring the urge to squeeze his eyes shut at the pain pulsating through his skull. “Everything’s okay, Matty, okay?”

His lip was quivering, but Matthew nodded valiantly. “Okay. I’m just… I’m really glad you’re okay, Ronan.” His words came out like a confession, soft and frightened and overflowing with emotion. “I don’t know what I would… I can’t lose you, too.”

There was a burning in Ronan’s eyes that he refused to acknowledge. “Hey,” he said, his voice rough, and he grasped his brother’s hand tightly in his. “Hey, look at me.” It took several seconds, but Ronan waited until his brother met his gaze to continue. “You’re not gonna lose me. I promise. You won’t lose me. I’m not going anywhere. You got that?”

Matthew nodded again, a few tears escaping his damp lash line. “I got it,” he said with a sniffle, squeezing Ronan’s hand. “I love you, Ronan.”

Ronan blinked a few times as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I love you, too, Matthew.”

Matthew rose from his chair and threw his arms around Ronan again, accidentally jostling his older brother and then repeating “I’m sorry,” until he had backed all the way across the room. He stopped there, his back flat against the wall, and ran a hand over his tear-streaked face. “I’m gonna go get Adam,” he said suddenly, and he was gone before Ronan could reply.

Before Ronan could think any more on the subject of Mr. Gray, Adam was striding through the open door and coming to a halt in the middle of the room, like he had just realized what he was doing. His mouth was set in a careful line, but his eyes were wild with guilt and anger and fear and determination all at once — the same look he had had on his face when it had collided with Joseph Kavinsky’s fist. Ronan almost flinched at the memory of it.

“Ronan,” Adam said slowly, gently. Not Lynch. _Ronan._ He took another step toward the hospital bed and faltered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coveralls. He was dressed like he had come directly from work, which he most likely had; the thought of Adam leaving work early to come see Ronan in the hospital did something to his chest that he hated more than any other part of this entire situation. Adam forced himself to take another step, and then another, and then he sank into the chair at Ronan’s bedside and ground his teeth violently.

Ronan could only stand to wait a few more seconds before prompting him to continue. “Adam?”

Adam’s gaze finally settled on him, weighty and intense. It was hard not to look away. “Your mom called,” said Adam carefully, as if it weren’t obvious. “She said you were in an accident.”

There was an implication there that Ronan’s concussed brain couldn’t quite wrap itself around, so he just nodded once. “Some asshole blew through a red light and hit me,” he said with a scowl that didn’t meet his eyes. “Supposedly. I don’t really remember.” Not a truth, but not a lie. He swallowed the bitter taste it left in his mouth.

“Are you…” Adam trailed off, furrowing his brows as he searched for words. “Your mom said you have a concussion. Are you okay?” Before Ronan could answer, Adam continued, “Sorry, that was a stupid question. Let me rephrase: how are you feeling?”

Well, Ronan could probably give him the truth there, at least. “Like shit,” he said, letting his head fall back softly onto his pillow. “My head is killing me. I don’t want to stay here tonight.” Suddenly something occurred to him, and he sat up straight again, despite the pain shooting through every square inch of his body. “Parrish,” he said, panicked. “My car.”

Adam winced.

Ronan’s mouth fell open. “How bad is it?”

Adam turned his gaze heavenward for a moment, exhaling as he thought about something. Just when his silence became unbearable, his eyes dropped down to meet Ronan’s again. “I can fix her,” he said finally, and there was no doubt in his voice. His face was steely. “I’m going to fix her.”

Something like relief coursed through Ronan’s veins, but he wasn’t ready to let himself feel it yet. “I thought you were busy with fugly.” There was something in his tone that he didn’t like, something bitter or jealous. Not to say that Ronan had a problem with coming across as bitter, but he wasn’t fond of the idea of being bitter toward Adam when it came to Joseph Kavinsky. At least, not so soon after that wretched Halloween party.

Adam, however, did not seem offended; in fact, his lips twitched into something like a smile. “Not anymore,” he said with half a shrug, but the way he bit his lip betrayed pride that he was desperately trying to hide. “I’m done with K. I’m done with his stupid Mitsubishi. I told him I wasn’t doing it anymore. Boyd’s taking it over.”

For a moment, Ronan didn’t even know what to say — he was all at once so happy and so proud and so excited for Adam that he didn’t think he could open his mouth without releasing an embarrassing slew of encouragement. He smiled dumbly at Adam, and Adam smiled dumbly back, and finally Ronan said through gritted teeth, “It’s about fucking time, Parrish.”

Adam barked out a laugh and leaned back in the chair, finally getting comfortable. He crossed an ankle over a knee and tapped his hands against the arms of the chair. “You’re not wrong,” he said, still smiling. “For the record, I told him I was done _before_ you wrecked your car.”

Ronan gave a small hum of approval. “What was the straw that broke the camel’s back?” he wondered aloud, raising an appraising brow. “Was it, hm, the right hook from Hell?”

The roll of Adam’s eyes said _unimpressed_ , but the way he chewed at the inside of his cheek countered that with _bashful_. “Actually,” said Adam after a second, one hand coming to rest on his ankle, “it was because he hit Gansey.”

That was valid, but… “What the hell, Parrish?” Ronan had meant the words to be angry, but instead they were just exhausted. “You couldn’t care less if the guy hit _you_ , but you draw the line at hitting _Gansey_?” Adam looked away, but Ronan kept going. “Man, Gansey’s like a brother to me, and even _I_ wanna deck him half the time.”

“I thought you were in love with Gansey,” said Adam very carefully, his gaze pointed determinedly at the wall.

“Bullshit,” Ronan said before he could stop himself, but his next words died in his throat. He threw an exasperated look at the ceiling. He opened his mouth to change the subject, but instead the question that left his lips was, “Why do you think your life is worth less than everyone else’s?”

Adam flushed so deeply that it looked painful. His mouth opened, and then it closed, and then it opened again, but no words came out; instead, he let out a shaky breath. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, placed his hand on Ronan’s for one second, and then he stood up and crossed the room. Ronan couldn’t tell if he was angry or hurt or just in disbelief that Ronan had actually said that to him — maybe he was all of the above. All he said, though, was, “I’m really glad you’re okay, Ronan.” Again, he said _Ronan._ “I’ll have the Beemer fixed up in no time.” And then, before Ronan could reply, he was gone.

Well, _shit_. Everything was really, truly, fucked.

Declan’s call came like clockwork.

To his own shame (but not much to his own surprise), Ronan actually considered ignoring the call for one fleeting second. The call rang once, twice, three times before Ronan could suck in a breath, tense his jaw, and accept the call.

“Declan,” said Ronan, his voice devoid of all emotion.

Declan sounded breathless and concerned. “Ronan,” he gasped, his voice crackling over the phone. “Jesus fuck, Mom said you got in a car wreck and you have a concussion? Are you okay? Should I—?”

“I’m fine,” Ronan cut him off gruffly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Declan repeated doubtfully. “And your car?”

To an outsider, the question may have seemed callous — to ask about Ronan’s health and the state of his car in nearly the same breath could sound strange, but to a Lynch brother, the question made sense. Declan and Ronan both loved their cars fiercely and desperately, and the Beemer had been Niall’s before his death. It mattered. It was a question that mattered.

Ronan grunted noncommittally. “It’s… not great. But Parrish is gonna fix it.”

On the other end, Declan sniffed. “When did you get so close to Adam Parrish?” he asked, and his voice did something strange when he said Adam’s name, like he was actively trying to keep the snobbiness out of it. Anger flared through Ronan’s chest.

“Things have changed since you left,” said Ronan stiffly. He didn’t give Declan the chance to say anything else before barrelling into the next topic. “Hey, can I, uh, can I ask you a question?”

There was a shuffling on Declan’s side, like he might be moving or getting comfortable. “Yeah, of course,” he said immediately. “What’s up?”

Ronan cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was suddenly anxious at what he might learn, but fear had never been a deterrent for Ronan in the same way that it was for others. He swallowed and said quickly, like ripping off a bandaid, “Does the name Mr. Gray mean anything to you?”

Declan was so quiet for so long that Ronan was sure he had hung up. After several long moments, Declan finally asked in a slow, low voice, “Why do you ask?”

Ronan’s entire body went cold. He had never heard Declan speak in that tone before, had not known his brother was capable of such steadiness in the face of fear and rage. And there was certainly fear and rage there, laced into each of his words, spreading through Ronan’s bones as well. 

“Tell me,” Ronan whispered.

“No.” Declan enunciated clearly, firm and commanding and deathly serious. “Ronan, I am only going to say this once: stay the _fuck_ away from Mr. Gray, and do not ask me about him again.”

Just like that, the conversation was effectively over. Ronan could not promise to leave it alone because he was not a liar, and Declan could not demand a promise because he knew it would only serve to motivate Ronan more. They were at a stalemate.

“I’ve gotta go, but just…” Declan went quiet again for a moment. “I love you, Ronan, okay? Please be careful. I love you, and I can’t protect you when I’m not there.”

“Protect me from what?”

Declan made an aggravated noise. “I love you. Be safe.” He hung up.

Ronan wanted to scream. He wanted to throw his phone across the room. He wanted to track down Mr. Gray and find out exactly what Declan was hiding from him. He settled for slumping down in his bed and closing his eyes. 

He finally got some sleep.

Ronan missed school the next day. For once in his life, he had actually told his mother that he wanted to go, but Aurora had insisted on checking him out of the hospital and taking him directly home to monitor him there. She was keen on the idea of him staying home for the rest of the week, and normally he would be more than compliant, but he wanted desperately to talk to Adam again and smooth things over. He knew he would have to talk to Adam face-to-face to actually have a conversation; Ronan’s one text (“Can we please talk?”) was still unanswered nearly twenty-four hours later. 

He spent the day watching Lifetime movies with Aurora and putting together a jigsaw puzzle (they spent six hours on it just to discover it was missing a piece). Unless it was to get him some food or to let him use the restroom, Aurora didn’t leave his side until it was time to pick Matthew up from school. She tried to persuade him to join her, but Ronan convinced her to let him stay home by himself for the half an hour it would take her to get Matthew and bring him home. 

Fifteen minutes past three, not long before Aurora should have been arriving home with Matthew, there was a knock at the front door. Ronan was tempted to ignore it, but then it occurred to him that it might be Adam coming to talk, so he pushed himself up from his spot on the couch and made his way to the front door. He threw it open without looking to see who it was, and immediately regretted it.

Standing on his front step was Richard Campbell Gansey III.

“Oh,” said Ronan awkwardly. “Gansey.” He paused, and then said, “Is everything alright?”

Gansey’s brows were furrowed. “I heard you wrecked your car. You weren’t at school. Are you okay?”

Ronan leaned against the doorframe, scratching the back of his head as he averted Gansey’s gaze. “I’m okay. I got a concussion and my mom wanted to watch me for another day.” He swallowed uncomfortably and said, “Thanks for checking in, or whatever.”

“Of course,” Gansey said, nodding. “I also, um, well. Do you have time to talk?” 

The obvious answer was _no_. He didn’t want to talk to Gansey, because he knew it wasn’t going to go well, but there was also a part of him that was deeply loyal to Gansey and he couldn’t just turn that off. He sighed and closed the door behind him, stepping sock-footed onto the porch. He walked to the edge and sat down on the top step. “I have a minute.”

After a moment of hesitation, Gansey joined him. “So,” said Gansey carefully, after a beat of awkward silence. “You’re dating Adam Parrish.” Paired with a classic Gansey frown, his tone could only be described as _good-naturedly judgmental._ Ronan snorted. Gansey continued, “I must say, I’m quite surprised.”

Leaning back on his elbows, Ronan stretched his legs out in front of him and clicked his tongue petulantly. “Why’s that?” he asked, his eyes trained on the roof of the porch. His tone was preemptively abrasive. “Is it really so difficult to believe that somebody might like me?” His voice was casual, bordering on self-deprecating, but Gansey had known him long enough to see the hurt it hid.

“No!” objected Gansey just a smidge too quickly. It could have meant a million things. “It’s just — I mean, he’s — and you — you are —” For somebody who was usually so eloquent and put-together, Gansey was having a hard time stringing together a coherent sentence. Ronan willed himself to be quiet, to let Gansey say what he meant to say, but words began to tumble out of his mouth without asking for permission.

“What? I’m _what_ , Gansey? He’s Adam Parrish, he’s popular and smart and hot, and I’m _what_? I’m Ronan Lynch. I’m mean and strange and traumatized, right? He plays lacrosse and he’s first in our class and I skip school and drag-race just to feel something. Is that it?” His anger was consuming him, burning him from the inside out, and without thinking about it he shoved up off his elbows and then stood, his socked feet cold on the cement, as he regarded Gansey. “You’re _surprised_ , Gansey? Surprised at _what_ , exactly?”

Gansey opened his mouth and then shut it again, like he had been about to say something and then thought better of it. He tried again. “That’s not it at all, Ronan,” he said, his tone schooled but his face giving away the barrage of emotions flooding through him: pain, shock, anger, guilt. “But you have to admit, you don’t seem like a likely pair.” His eyes widened as he realized what he had said, and his mouth went slack for a fraction of a second, which was all the time that Ronan needed to jump back in.

“ _A likely pair_ ,” he repeated mockingly, folding his arms across his chest just to immediately unfold them and plant his hands on his hips. When he got like this, angry and wounded, he couldn’t stop moving. Hell, he could barely sit still when he _wasn’t_ furious, but this — arguing, arguing with _Gansey_ , hurting each other over and over again without meaning to — it made his entire body itch and burn and shake. He needed to move. He needed to _move_. He began to pace, but it didn’t soften the edges of his voice; if anything, they became even sharper. “Sorry that we can’t all be matching _nerds_ like you and _Declan_ —”

For the first time in the conversation, Gansey’s voice turned bitter. “This isn’t about _me and Declan_ ,” he snapped before catching himself. He took a deep breath. “You’re just — it’s not _bad_ — you’re just too good for him.” The words hung in the air between them for a moment before crashing to the ground. Ronan looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.

“I’m not as good as you seem to think I am, _Dick._ ”

Gansey scoffed. “Ronan,” he said, far too gently.

Ronan refused to meet his gaze. “Gansey,” he said, all fire. They were both quiet for a second, and Ronan took the opportunity to storm up the steps, past where Gansey sat, watching him. “Well, if that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m—”

“Wait.” There was a hint of desperation in Gansey’s voice, so rare that Ronan actually felt himself pause, hand on the doorknob. He didn’t turn around, but he knew that Gansey had stood up and was facing him. “Ronan, did you… did you mean what you wrote? In the letter?”

The letter. One way or another, it was always going to come back to the letter, wasn’t it? Ronan wanted to go back in time and stop himself from ever learning how to write. He ducked his head. “It was so long ago, Gansey,” he said, his voice too weary to be cutting anymore. It was not a real answer, but it was the most truthful he could be without ruining everything a second time.

Behind him, Gansey exhaled slowly. “But it wasn’t. Not for me. This is all new for me, and I’m trying to understand, so I need you to be honest with me.”

Ronan turned to look at him finally, his hand still on the door. “This is as honest as I can be, okay?” Still a half-truth, still an omission, but wasn’t that Ronan’s own brand of honesty? “The letter doesn’t even matter. You were never supposed to see it.”

“But I did see it!” Gansey’s brows were furrowed. “What am I supposed to do, Ronan?”

“Could you, you know, not tell Declan?”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say; Gansey exploded. “Declan’s not even talking to me!” he shouted, his eyes wide with pain and anger. “You don’t have to worry about that! Of course that would be _your_ biggest concern, here, though—”

“Gansey, man, I didn’t—” Ronan reached out to place a hand on Gansey’s shoulder, but Gansey just stepped back, shaking his head.

“So that’s it?” Gansey hissed, his hands raised in either bewilderment or surrender. “So Declan breaks up with me, and you start dating Adam Parrish, and you and I can’t even be friends anymore? That isn’t — I mean, come _on_ , Ronan, it doesn’t have to be like that. You know it doesn’t have to be like that.”

Ronan broke. “I don’t know how to be friends with you like this, Gansey! We can’t go back to how it was _before_ you and Declan started dating, and we _definitely_ can’t go back to how it was _while_ you were dating, so what? What do we do? If you have any ideas, I’d love to hear ‘em, man, but I just. Don’t. Know.”

Gansey closed his eyes. “If I had known I was going to lose both of you like this—”

“Don’t,” Ronan warned, turning away again. “Don’t finish that sentence.” He pushed the door open with a sense of finality.

“Ronan,” Gansey pleaded, stepping toward him. “You can’t just walk away from me, Ronan.”

Ronan just shook his head and stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

When there was another knock at the door later that evening, Ronan asked Matthew to answer it, and gave him instructions to turn Gansey away.

But it wasn’t Gansey.

“Adam!” Matthew shouted in the entryway, enthusiastic and delighted. Down the hallway, in the kitchen, Ronan froze. He listened as his younger brother said, “Of course Ronan’s here! Let me go ask him if he’s up for visitors.” The door closed, and then footsteps ran up the hallway.

“Ronan!” Matthew yelled, appearing in the kitchen doorway. Ronan was already drying his hands at the counter. “Adam’s here! Should I send him away, or can I let him in?”

Ronan crossed the room and passed his brother in the doorway. “I’ll let him in,” he said, and when Matthew whooped and followed after him, Ronan turned a heatless glare on the younger boy. “But I need to talk to him alone for a second, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer before heading toward the door.

Adam was still standing peacefully on the porch when Ronan opened the door, dressed in a sweater over a button-up shirt and a pair of slacks. His hair was combed back and he wasn’t covered in grease or dirt; he looked _nice_. When Ronan met his eye, Adam smiled, and the strange yellow glow of the porchlight should have washed him out, but he remained angelic as always. “Hey,” he said, his voice quiet. “How are you feeling?”

Standing in his entryway in just a threadbare black t-shirt and sweatpants in front of the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, Ronan was _feeling_ self-conscious. He folded his arms across his chest and said, “I’m fine. How was school?”

Adam shifted slightly. “It was okay,” he replied with a shrug. His hands were behind his back, and it struck Ronan as odd, but before he could ask about it, Adam added, “Can I come in?”

Ronan glanced over his shoulder. “It’s, um, it’s just about time for dinner.” He regretted it immediately, hated himself for turning Adam away, but Adam didn’t leave. In fact, he nodded slowly, as if he was waiting for Ronan to understand something painfully obvious.

When Ronan still didn’t understand what was happening, Adam decided to take pity on him. “I’m guessing your mom didn’t tell you that she invited me over for dinner?” 

Oh, _Aurora_. Ronan groaned inwardly and pushed himself out of the doorway, opening the door wide enough so that Adam could enter. “She did not,” he sighed, letting the door swing shut as soon as Adam was through it. “Figures. You can head into the kitchen, I’ll be right back.” He trotted up the stairs and burst into his bedroom, changed into a clean black t-shirt, jeans, and boots, and then headed back downstairs to join Adam, Aurora, and Matthew in the kitchen.

“Ronan,” Aurora said as soon as her middle son entered the room. She was arranging a bouquet inside a glass vase. “Look at these flowers that Adam brought! Aren’t they beautiful?”

The arrangement was pretty, if you were into that sort of thing, but Ronan just looked at it and then looked at Adam. Adam was looking back, his cheeks tinged pink. He took in Ronan’s new outfit and raised a brow, almost mockingly, but then turned back to Aurora. “I just wanted to thank you for having me, ma’am.” 

Ronan’s mouth went dry, and he stifled a cough. Oh, that _bastard._ Adam was playing up his accent ever so slightly, probably to court favor and make himself seem more charming, and it may have been meant for Aurora but it was turning Ronan’s insides to liquid. He glared, and Adam just blinked at him innocently, rocking on his heels.

“You’re such a polite boy,” Aurora said warmly, turning toward the oven to check on the food. “It makes me wonder how you and Ronan get along.” 

Most people would not have been able to catch the sarcasm in Aurora’s voice, but Adam was not ‘most people’. He replied in a tone identical to hers, “We have a similar sense of humor.”

When Aurora turned back to the boys, there was something different in her facial expression, a layer of approval that hadn’t been there before. “Adam, my love, would you do me a favor and set the table, please? Matthew will help you.” Adam nodded and turned toward Matthew, who dragged him over to the cabinets and began pulling out stacks of dishes while he chattered away. While they were distracted, Aurora stepped into the hallway and motioned for Ronan to follow her.

“If you’re about to tell me you hate him—” Ronan began, even though that wasn’t where he thought the conversation was about to go.

Aurora held up a hand to silence him. “This is the only question I am going to ask you about your relationship, and I am only going to ask it once. No matter what you say, I love you and I am on your side, okay?”

Ronan was suddenly incredibly nervous. “Okay.”

“Are you serious about him?”

Maybe it looked bad, but Ronan hesitated. He thought about kissing Adam during spin-the-bottle, and again on the track, and again at the party. He thought about Adam driving his car, Adam taking a hit for Gansey, Adam letting Ronan climb into bed with him after a nightmare. Adam playing lacrosse. Adam laughing. Adam touching his hand in the hospital.

At the end of the day, Ronan Lynch was not a liar. “Yes.”

However this made Aurora feel, she hid it behind a neutral smile and reached out to rub gently at Ronan’s shoulder. “Okay,” she said, and then, more gently, she added, “I am so very proud of you.”

For some reason, that one sentence filled Ronan with so much shame and guilt that he almost told his mother everything right then and there. The only thing that stopped him was the promise he had made to Adam that first day, the item that _he_ had added to the contract, the first rule of fight club. 

Instead, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly.

When they separated, there was something like confusion in Aurora’s eyes, but true to her word, she didn’t ask any more questions. They reentered the kitchen to find it empty, Adam and Matthew’s voices echoing through the archway separating the kitchen from the dining room — Matthew joking rambunctiously about something that had happened in class, Adam laughing along with him. The sound was almost too perfect; Ronan had to take a moment before grabbing the food and heading into the dining room. 

Aurora had made a simple meal of store-bought lasagna and garlic bread, and Ronan was glad that she hadn’t attempted any of Niall’s Irish recipes (Ronan and Matthew could deal with bad Irish food, but Adam didn’t deserve to be subjected to that). She served them each more food than was strictly necessary and they found their default seats at the table, Aurora sitting at the end and Adam and Ronan side-by-side across from Matthew. For a moment, there was only the sound of forks scraping plates and muffled chewing, and then:

“So, Adam, Ronan tells me that you live by yourself?”

Ronan turned his head toward his mother so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash. His mouth fell open to say something, anything, but before he could even imagine a proper response, Adam had swallowed and was beginning to answer. 

“Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” said Adam calmly, lifting a napkin to dab at his lips. “I have an apartment above St. Agnes, the Catholic church on Juniper Street.”

“Huh?” Ronan sputtered, nearly choking on his mouthful of garlic bread. “You live above St. Agnes?”

Matthew grinned. “That’s our church!” he exclaimed, waving his fork at Adam. “I can’t believe you live above our church and we didn’t even know it!”

“Small world,” said Aurora with a smile. “Please let me know if I’m overstepping, but may I ask why you live alone?”

She was definitely overstepping, but Adam didn’t seem to mind. His shoulders didn’t tense as he replied, “You’re not overstepping at all, ma’am. I got myself emancipated a few months ago after an, um, an incident with my father.”

Ronan clenched his fists; Aurora’s eyes flashed, and Matthew cocked his head. When Aurora began to speak again, Ronan was afraid she would continue to pry, but instead all she said was, “You really don’t need to call me ‘ma’am,’ Adam,” in a voice so warm and gentle that it nearly ached. 

Adam smiled and nodded, finally turning his attention back to his food. Ronan shot his mother a glance that said _stop while you’re ahead_ , but she had eyes only for Adam. Matthew was watching the conversation unfold with quiet curiosity, eating without really paying attention to what he was putting into his mouth.

“Ronan says you work three jobs?” said Aurora after a moment. Her inflection suggested that it was a question, but it wasn’t, not really. Adam took a small sip of his glass of water and then looked at her once again, infinitely patient.

“Yes, ma’am.” He paused. “Oh. Sorry. Yes, I work at the factory north of town, Boyd’s Garage, and the supermarket on Main Street.”

Aurora nodded as she tore her garlic bread into small pieces. “So you work three jobs, and you’re first in your class? That’s very impressive, Adam.”

Blushing slightly, Adam said, “Thank you, ma—” He swallowed. “Thank you.”

After that, the conversation turned to easier topics, like A.P. classes and lacrosse games and Matthew’s social life. Unless Adam was speaking or being directly spoken to, Ronan tuned it all out, his thoughts wandering aimlessly from Adam’s mysterious parents to the Beemer sitting in a dusty garage across town to Mr. Gray and the fear in Declan’s voice at the mere mention of the name. 

Eventually, when they were all done eating, Adam helped Aurora to clear the table. When he and Ronan stepped up to the sink to do the dishes, however, she sent them away, stating that Adam was a guest and had already helped more than she could ask, and Ronan was still recovering from his wreck and could take the night off from his chores. He half-expected Adam to leave then, but instead Adam headed out the kitchen door into the backyard, jerking his head at Ronan to follow him.

The backyard was fenced-in and pitch black, but after Adam had taken a couple of steps, a motion light came on and bathed it in a sickly yellow glow. Even though he had never been in the yard (to Ronan’s knowledge, at least), Adam made a beeline for the old swingset near the fence, and Ronan followed wordlessly, making sure to take a seat in the swing to Adam’s right.

Neither boy spoke for a few moments, until Ronan said, “Sorry about the interrogation back there.”

In his periphery, he saw Adam shake his head. “Nah, it’s fine. I really didn’t mind,” Adam said, pushing himself back and forth slowly in the swing. “I think it’s nice, how much your mom cares.”

Ronan snorted. “It gets old fast, trust me.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Adam said, and although there was no anger or malice in his voice, his words hit Ronan like a slap to the face.

“I’m sorry,” said Ronan. “Sorry, that was really — I mean, I shouldn’t have —”

Adam huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh. “It’s okay, really. I know what you meant.”

It wasn’t okay, but Ronan didn’t want to push it. He thought maybe he should change the subject, but the only coherent thoughts he had were unanswered questions about touchy topics, so he settled on saying nothing at all.

It was Adam who finally spoke next. “Are you going to school tomorrow?”

Aurora had told Ronan she thought he was fine to go back, so naturally he had decided that he didn’t want to. Still, he said, “Yeah, I plan on it.”

Adam nodded. “I’ll pick you up at the usual time, then.” He stood up and ruffled a hand through his hair, and they were too far from the light for Ronan to be able to read his face, but he could swear Adam was smiling. “I’m glad I came tonight.”

“I’m glad you did, too,” said Ronan. It was the whole truth.

“Goodnight, Ronan,” Adam said, and he headed back to the door.

Ronan didn’t move from the swings. “Goodnight, Adam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! if i don't update again soon, pls softly bully me and i will get to it! as always, you're welcome to come interact with me on tumblr, i'm @wespers and i make gifs and talk about adam parrish a lot :) i hope you're all doing well and staying safe! also! while i've got you here, don't forget to [support BLACK LIVES MATTER](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#) and take care of yourself!!


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in this chapter for food mentions, canon-typical violence, child abuse, discussions of child abuse, joseph kavinsky in general
> 
> posting this after abandoning it for so many months feels like this time in high school when i stayed out for hours past curfew without answering one of my mom's calls or texts. when i got home, she was waiting on the porch with her arms crossed, and all i had to say in my defense was "well, at least i'm here NOW." hope you enjoy this chapter ♡

The next few weeks passed peacefully, or as peacefully as life could for Ronan. He fell into an easy rhythm in his fake relationship with Adam, which was either fantastic or horrible (he hadn’t decided yet). There had been no more kissing, and they hadn’t talked about the party or the wreck or the hospital, but things were nice. Fun, even, if Ronan was being completely honest with himself.

They settled into a routine of driving to and from school together, and eating together at lunch, and even sometimes spending time together outside of school when Adam’s schedule permitted it. Aurora invited Adam to family dinners and movie nights, the way they had once invited Gansey, and although Adam was almost always busy with work or homework or lacrosse, he still showed up when he could. Matthew and Aurora had taken a great liking to him, and the affection that Ronan felt while watching Adam interact with his family was otherwise unparalleled.

When Thanksgiving finally rolled around and they were given the week off from school, Ronan resisted the urge to ask Adam what his plans were. He knew well enough that Adam would not be visiting his family, and had probably already planned out every minute of the break to maximize efficiency in all areas of his life. Ronan just hoped that he had scheduled in time to sleep; Adam seemed to have a self-inflicted case of insomnia that rivaled both Ronan _and_ Gansey. 

So, Ronan wasn’t really planning on seeing Adam over Thanksgiving break, and he had made peace with that. Well, mostly. Since he had realized just how strongly he felt for Adam, he was constantly itching to see him, talk to him, find an excuse to touch him. Had his car been out of the shop, he probably would’ve driven to the garage and St. Agnes every day to bother Adam, but the Beemer was still at the mercy of the mechanics at Boyd’s — namely Adam, because he was opposed to the idea of anyone else touching the vehicle without his supervision — and so Ronan was stuck at home. He spent his free time hanging out with Matthew or drawing in a sketchbook he found long-abandoned beneath his bed. Slowly, he began to fill the pages with sketches of anything and everything: Adam, the Beemer, Adam, Matthew, Adam, his night horrors, Adam.

The Lynches didn’t really have any extended family (there were some people in the old country, but they had mostly lost touch after Niall’s death) and so Thanksgiving Day was always a small, quiet affair. True to his word, Declan did not come home, but Matthew still woke Ronan up early and dragged him downstairs so the three remaining Lynches could watch the Macy’s Parade together. Ronan had never been a big fan of parades and got bored quickly, but he was a big fan of his family, so he stayed in the living room with them and doodled absently in his sketchbook as Aurora and Matthew talked excitedly about the different balloons and performers.

Eventually, the parade ended, or at least slowed down enough to justify turning it off. Aurora immediately corralled her sons into the kitchen to help start dinner, and for the next several hours, the three of them took turns making their usual dishes and flipping through the channels on TV to find something they could all agree on.

The food was very nearly (finally) done when the doorbell rang late in the afternoon. Ronan’s brows furrowed as he glanced around the kitchen, very clearly taking inventory of his two family members and trying to figure out who in the world could be at their house at 5:30 PM on Thanksgiving, but Matthew and Aurora just exchanged knowing looks as Aurora headed for the front door. Curious, Ronan stuck his head into the hallway, and he nearly choked on his own spit when his mother opened the door and greeted a very polite, very well-dressed Adam Parrish.

While Adam and Aurora exchanged pleasantries in the entryway (once again, he had brought her flowers), Ronan turned on his younger brother. “Did you know about this?” he hissed, and Matthew just looked at him innocently and scurried into the dining room. Ronan stopped, took a deep breath, and then slipped into the dining room himself.

Judging by the movement of their voices, Aurora was leading Adam into the kitchen. When Ronan was sure they were no longer in the hallway, he walked quietly down the hall and up the staircase, letting himself into his room and immediately leaning back against the door and groaning. What was with Aurora and inviting Adam to dinner without telling Ronan? Why was she so set on ambushing him? 

He exhaled deeply as he dug through his closet and found an acceptable outfit. He was tired of being under-dressed every time Adam came over. Oh, fuck this. Why was he dressing up just to eat dinner in his own house? To impress Adam Parrish? What the fuck was wrong with him?

He pulled up a pair of artfully-torn skinny jeans anyway. God, he was going to kill his mother.

When Ronan finally appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning on the frame and crossing his arms over his chest, he was delighted to see Adam actually stop and physically look him up and down. He actually seemed to be speechless for a second, until Ronan raised one mocking eyebrow, and then he was back to normal.

“How do you manage to be fashionably late in your own home?” asked Adam, stirring a dish of mashed potatoes without looking at it.

Ronan smirked, not moving any further into the kitchen. “It’s a gift.”

Adam just snorted at that, turning his attention back to the preparation of the food. Ronan took the opportunity to gaze long and hard at Adam — tonight he was dressed in a dark sweater, the sleeves cuffed a few times where they were clearly too long, and a pair of tan slacks, also cuffed. His hair was mussed in a careful and deliberate way, and the watch he wore on his left wrist was different from the one he wore to work and school; the band was darker and it was obviously newer, nicer. The thought that Adam had dressed up just to eat dinner with the Lynch family did strange, not-entirely-unpleasant things to Ronan’s stomach.

“Are you just gonna stand there staring at Adam all night?” Matthew said loudly from the doorway to the dining room. “Or are you gonna help us bring all this food in?”

Ronan blushed bright pink, but Adam just smirked wordlessly down at the potholders he was slipping his hands into. Ronan grumbled something indiscernible under his breath and grabbed two baskets of rolls before stomping into the dining room and dropping them on the table without ceremony.

Adam came in directly behind him, carrying the pan of mashed potatoes so carefully it might’ve been a priceless family heirloom. Ronan made to move around him and head back into the kitchen, but Adam was quicker; he put the pan down and immediately stepped into Ronan’s path, blocking him in, and smirked wickedly.

“You clean up pretty nice, Lynch.” They were standing so close that Adam had to tilt his head back slightly to meet Ronan’s eye, and Ronan had to drag his gaze away from the vast expanse of tan skin at Adam’s throat. Judging by the quirk of his eyebrow, Adam noticed. His smirk turned into a grin. “Do you dress up for dinner every night, or just when I’m around?”

Ronan glanced involuntarily at Adam’s lips, then flicked his eyes up to meet Adam’s again. “Fuck you,” he said heatlessly.

Adam sighed in faux disappointment. “Is that really all you’ve got? How embarrassing.” Ronan scoffed, and Adam just reached up and patted him lightly on the shoulder. “Take a cold shower and maybe we can try again later.” He turned and went back into the kitchen, leaving Ronan gaping after him.

A few seconds later, Aurora stepped into the room, carrying the turkey. “Close your mouth, Ronan,” she said sweetly, an amused smile gracing her lips. “You’ll catch flies like that.”

Ronan snapped his mouth shut with an audible _click_. He inhaled deeply, held, and then exhaled. 

It was going to be a long night.

“Okay,” said Aurora from her seat at the end of the table. They were all seated, food piled on their plates, napkins spread in their laps. “Let’s go around the table and each say something we’re thankful for.”

Immediately, Matthew bounced up and down in his chair. “Ooh, let me start!” Before anybody could protest, he said, “I’m thankful for family and friends and Adam driving us to school!” He aimed the last part at Adam, grinning spectacularly, and Adam smiled open-mouthed back at him.

Aurora smoothed the tablecloth in front of her with the palms of her hands. “My turn. I’m thankful for family and friends as well, and for Ronan’s swift recovery from his wreck.”

Then, it was Adam’s turn. He stared down at his plate self-consciously as he said, “I’m, um, I’m thankful for y’all, and I’m thankful to be here with you tonight.” He paused, considering. “And I’m, well, I’m really thankful for Ronan in particular.”

Ronan’s breath hitched; he coughed to clear his throat. All eyes were suddenly on him. His cheeks were turning pink and he glanced over at Adam, who was watching him intently, then directed his gaze back to the table just as quickly. In his periphery, he could tell Adam was still staring. Ronan addressed his plate. “I’m thankful for, um, I’m just, I’m really, I’m, uh,” he stuttered, much to his mortification. He tried again, the words all coming out in one breath. “I’m thankful for family and Adam and Blue.”

After one awkward second, Aurora took a deep breath at the head of the table and picked up her fork. “Okay,” she said, smiling warmly. “Let’s eat.”

Ronan dug into his food quickly, trying to focus on anything other than his own embarrassment at stumbling over such a simple statement. To his left, Adam carefully unfolded a linen napkin and placed it in his lap, his elbow brushing Ronan’s as he moved. Ronan tried and failed not to burn bright red. He stuffed a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“How has your break been so far, Adam?” Aurora asked politely after a few moments of eating in silence.

Adam lifted his napkin and dabbed at his lips slightly before answering. “It’s been good,” he said easily, but the way he ran his hand through his hair told Ronan that it was at least somewhat a lie. “Not a lot going on.”

Aurora took a sip of the drink in front of her. “Oh?” She tilted her head. “What have you been up to?”

The breath that Adam took was carefully measured, but it was obvious only to Ronan. “Just working,” said Adam. “And getting ahead on some schoolwork.”

Aurora gave him an approving look, but there was something about the set of her mouth that made Ronan think, incredulously, that she knew something was up. Instead of prying, however, she just smiled warmly and picked up her fork again. “That’s good,” she said with a sense of finality signaling the end of the interrogation.

Matthew led the rest of the scattered conversation for the meal, bouncing between subjects like school and his friends and a band that he liked, and while Adam followed and engaged effortlessly, it quickly became clear that he was not as invested in the conversation as normal. Even Matthew was giving him strange glances when he thought Adam wasn’t looking by the end of the meal, and when Aurora began to clear the table, she exempted both Adam and Ronan from the chore with a soft (if not concerned) look in her eye. 

“Are you okay, Parrish?” Ronan asked once he and Adam were alone in the dining room.

Adam let out a deep breath. “I’m fine,” he said, his words toneless. “Just really tired. I should, um, I should probably get home. I’ve got some stuff to do tonight.”

Ronan wanted to call his bluff. He wanted to get a real answer out of Adam, and challenge him, but it was of no use — Adam would tell him only what he wanted to tell him, and only when he wanted to tell it. So Ronan just nodded and stood up, and he said, “I’m glad you came tonight.”

When he looked at Adam, Adam was giving him a small, almost shy smile. “Me too,” Adam admitted, also standing. After a moment, his face brightened. “Oh!” he said, eyes widening. “I almost forgot! Come with me.” Without hesitation, he took Ronan’s hand and began to pull him into the hallway.

The contact alone stunned Ronan so much that he couldn’t even think to ask where they were going or what Adam had forgotten — all he could think about was his fingers between Adam’s and their palms sliding together and the spot where their wrists met. They stepped through the front door and Adam stopped on the front porch, grinning at Ronan triumphantly, and Ronan didn’t even register what Adam was smiling about because he was too busy just smiling back.

“Well?” Adam prompted after a few seconds. They were still staring into each other’s eyes. “What do you think?” Ronan arched an eyebrow, and when Adam’s eyes cut away from him, Ronan followed his gaze.

Straight to the shiny BMW parked in the driveway.

“You fixed it,” Ronan breathed, hardly believing the sight before him. “You fixed it.”

Adam stepped down off the porch then, tugging Ronan along with him by the hand. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “How does it look?”

With his free hand, Ronan reached out and stroked the hood. He walked around the vehicle, hand in hand with Adam the whole time, and when they reached the front of the car again he turned around and grinned at Adam so happily that it didn’t feel real. “It’s perfect, Parrish.”

Adam grinned back. “Yeah?”

Sucking in a deep breath, Ronan rubbed his thumb soothingly against Adam’s. “Yeah.”

Adam looked down at their hands, and then back up at Ronan, and Ronan was suddenly struck by their proximity; they were nearly nose-to-nose, so close that Ronan’s eyes were going unfocused as they took in the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Adam’s nose. He watched as Adam blinked once, twice, and then fluttered his eyelids closed completely, and his hand was squeezing Ronan’s, and Ronan was overcome by the need to lean in and —

The front door opened.

“You finished!” Matthew shouted, barreling down the porch steps. Adam stepped back immediately, moved out of Ronan’s space until Matthew was between them, staring at the BMW in awe. “It looks better than it has since it was new!” 

Ronan nearly choked on the breath he exhaled. “Yeah,” he panted, raising a wrist to his face and biting down on one of his leather bands. “Yeah, yeah, it’s perfect.”

Several feet away, Adam was running a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ve, um, I’ve really gotta get going,” he mumbled, and he walked around to the back of the Beemer and popped the trunk. “Tell your mom I had a great time, I—”

“Wait,” Ronan interrupted. “Wait, if you drove the Beemer here, how are you getting home?”

In reply, Adam lifted his bike from the trunk of the car and arched an immaculate eyebrow at Ronan.

Ronan scoffed. “No. No way. I’m driving you.” Adam opened his mouth to argue, but Ronan cut him off again with a wave of his hand. “Come on, you just ate what may have been the largest meal of your life, and it’s late. I’m driving you. It’s not up for negotiation.”

There was a tense, quiet second, and then Adam lowered the bicycle back into the trunk wordlessly. Ronan considered it a victory.

Matthew, who had been watching the scene unfold with uncharacteristic patience, headed back for the porch. “I’ll tell Mom you’re taking Adam home!” he said brightly before disappearing inside and shutting the door. Adam reached into his pocket and dislodged a car key, dropping it in Ronan’s waiting hand before crossing to the other side of the car and sliding into the passenger seat.

The drive to St. Agnes was quiet. Ronan didn’t have to ask for directions, since he knew the way there by heart, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn on his music. He hated how awkward things always seemed to become in the moments after — after what? He didn’t even know what to call it, the way they were in Tad’s basement and Declan’s bedroom and the driveway. Were those the moments when they were the realest with each other, the most genuine? Or was it more playacting, just two teenage boys who had blurred the lines in their friendship-slash-fake-relationship so much that they didn’t even know what they were supposed to be anymore?

“You’re about to miss the turn,” said Adam hoarsely. Ronan jerked the wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam reach up and grab the handle above the door, but the other boy said nothing else.

When they finally rolled to a stop in the St. Agnes parking lot, Ronan pulled the emergency brake without getting out of the car. He tapped his hands against the steering wheel and then turned to level Adam with his most intense gaze, but Adam just stared back, unintimidated.

“Parrish,” Ronan said without knowing where his sentence was going.

Adam raised his eyebrows and waited, but when he realized Ronan wasn’t going to continue, he deflated slightly. “Thanks for dinner,” Adam said. “And the ride.” He paused, opening the car door without looking at it. “I’ll see you Monday?”

Feeling distinctly disappointed without knowing why, Ronan nodded. “See you Monday,” he confirmed. Adam stepped out of the car and headed toward the building, then jogged up the stairs, paused to unlock his door, and slipped into his apartment without so much as glancing back at Ronan over his shoulder.

Ronan did not leave right away. He felt the strangest urge to stay, to get out of his car and follow Adam up the stairs and bang on his door, ask to be let in. He felt like he should _stay_ , like something bad would happen if he didn’t _stay_ , and so he stayed. Just for a few minutes, he told himself.

The clock on the dashboard told Ronan that he had been sitting in his car for nearly half an hour when another vehicle pulled into the lot. The driver didn’t seem to notice the Beemer as they parked haphazardly near the church entrance and the door opened, a middle-aged man stumbling out. He was obviously drunk, staggering away from the old, rusty car without bothering to shut the door, and he seemed to be headed for Adam’s apartment. 

Ronan’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He was absolutely sure that something bad was about to happen, but he couldn’t move from his seat. He watched unblinkingly as the man reached the top of the steps and slammed his fist against the door. The door opened slowly, just a crack, and Ronan barely saw Adam peak outside before the drunk man was shoving the door open and pushing his way inside the apartment.

From there, it was pure instinct. Ronan’s blood rushed in his ears as he left his own car and crossed the parking lot in a heartbeat, taking the stairs two at a time. Adam’s apartment door was still open when Ronan reached the landing, and he threw himself through it to find the drunk man holding the collar of Adam’s shirt, shouting in his face. Adam was turned away from the door, his entire body tensed, and Ronan saw red.

The drunk man — he must have been Adam’s father, he _had_ to be — turned his head to look at Ronan. “The fuck do you want?” he roared, his grip on Adam loosening ever so slightly. Ronan took a step forward, and another, and then squared his shoulders. 

“To do this,” Ronan snarled, and his fist met the man’s jaw with a crack.

In his shock, the man let go of Adam’s shirt completely, and Adam scrambled away, breathing heavily. Ronan watched him for only a second before his attention snapped back to the elder Parrish, who was swinging a meaty fist in Ronan’s direction with the intent to kill. Ronan ducked and jabbed at the man’s stomach, but he was too slow in moving back; a blow struck him in the side of the face and he stumbled back, swearing.

Across the room, Adam’s voice was frantic. “Ronan,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. Ronan couldn’t tell if he was begging Ronan to stop or just to be careful, but it didn’t matter either way; Ronan wasn’t going to stop until he was either incapacitated, or Adam’s father was KTFO. 

The fight got dirty quickly. It devolved from flying fists to boots against knees and fingernails on exposed skin, and Ronan was a decent fighter but Adam’s dad was actually putting up quite the challenge. Ronan’s mind was searching for something, anything, that would help him to put Adam’s father down once and for all when suddenly Adam’s voice was breaking through the haze of the fight.

“Dad,” he was saying, cold and steady. Mr. Parrish’s elbow collided with Ronan’s ribcage and Ronan hissed in pain. Near the wall, Adam’s voice continued, “I’m calling the police, Dad. You have ten seconds to get out of here.”

That got through to the elder Parrish; he froze mid-swing, turning to bare his teeth at Adam. “You wouldn’t,” he growled, and as he watched, Adam hit the call button on his cellphone and brought it to his ear.

“I don’t think the judge will go so easily on you this time,” Adam said, and Mr. Parrish finally took a step back.

“Fine,” he spat, moving to stand in the doorway. “ _Fine_. But don’t you come crawling back to us when —” He was cut off by Ronan slamming the door in his face and locking it.

The apartment was eerily still for a moment. The silence suddenly felt suffocating after the chaos of the fight, but Ronan just shook his head and rubbed a hand against his face, startling when he realized his nose was bleeding. 

“Ronan,” Adam said very quietly.

Adam was only a few feet away when Ronan looked up. Adam’s eyes were wide, fear and concern plain on his face. He was deceptively steady, though, like he had taken a great portion of his panic and stowed it away somewhere deep inside himself. “Ronan,” he said again, and it was just a whisper but his voice was strained. His lip trembled until he bit down on it.

“I’m sorry,” Ronan said belatedly. He did not know if it was the right thing to say — if there _was_ a right thing to say — but he had to say it, just in case. He thought about promising Adam that he wouldn’t fight anybody at the Halloween party. _This is different_ , he thought, but then his mind conjured up an image of Adam’s blood pooling in his goddamn collarbones, and maybe it really wasn’t quite as different as Ronan thought.

Adam took a step closer, clenching his jaw. “No,” he said, and with every breath he took, he seemed to calm down the slightest bit. “No, don’t apologize. I’m—” He cut himself off, turned his head and looked away. “Thank you.”

Inexplicably, Ronan breathed out a laugh. “I should go home,” he said, not moving toward the door. “I’ve been gone forever. Mom’s probably having a conniption.”

But Adam shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, you just took, like, half a dozen hits to the face. After getting a concussion less than a month ago. You’re not driving.”

Ronan thought back on another conversation. _You look like Carrie at the fuckin’ prom,_ he had told Adam. _I want you to stay here tonight._

An argument could have been made for Adam driving Ronan back to his house. Odds were that the safest option would be placing Ronan under Aurora’s observation, and Adam staying there with them because Ronan would not let him out of his sight. 

But instead, Ronan said, “Okay. But I gotta let my mom know.”

Adam did not smile; he simply handed his cellphone to Ronan and turned away.

The call with Aurora was short. Ronan did not tell her about Mr. Parrish or the fight — she would have driven to St. Agnes and collected both boys herself. Instead, Ronan simply asked if he could stay the night, and Aurora said yes.

“Be safe,” she said seriously before she hung up. Ronan cringed and held the cell phone out Adam.

“What’d she say?” Adam asked, tearing a coffee filter precisely in his hands. He did not take the phone; he simply handed Ronan the pieces of coffee filter to stick up his nose. The nosebleed wasn’t bad, but it was annoying.

Ronan grunted. “She said it’s okay.”

Adam just nodded at that and pushed off from where he had been leaning against the counter. He walked to a stack of plastic drawers in the corner and pulled out a towel and some clean clothes. “It’ll probably be small on you, but here. You can sleep in this. And you can shower, if you want to.”

There was something frighteningly intimate about showering in Adam’s apartment, but Ronan was desperate enough to cleanse himself of the blood — both his and Mr. Parrish’s — staining his skin to take the offer. 

Ronan showered as quickly as he could, not wanting to waste water that Adam would have to pay for, and then slipped into Adam’s clothes clumsily. As predicted, they weren’t a perfect fit — the shoulders of the shirt were too tight and the hemline didn’t quite reach his hip bones, and the sweatpants rode up around his ankles like highwaters — but it was still cleaner and more comfortable than the clothes he had with him, so he couldn’t complain. He opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the main room of the apartment.

Adam was sitting on the floor beside his mattress, a worn paperback book in his hands, but as soon as Ronan entered the room he had Adam’s full attention. Adam’s eyes flickered to the bare skin where the shirt ended and then snapped back to Ronan’s face, then repeated the movement two more times before he seemed to realize he was staring and his face turned pink. He glared down at his book. “You can have the bed,” he said flippantly.

Also blushing, Ronan scoffed and stalked further into the room. “It’s your bed, Parrish,” he said, throwing himself down on the floor beside Adam. “I can sleep on the floor, I’m a big boy.”

“You’re my guest,” Adam pointed out, dog-earing the page he was on and closing his book. “It would be rude of me to take the bed.”

Ronan reached over and took the book from his hands. The fucking _Odyssey_. He tossed it aside, letting it land haphazardly on Adam’s desk. “Oh, yes, because you do so hate to be rude.”

“Asshole,” said Adam, but it didn’t really have any bite to it. He sighed and leaned backward, letting the back of his head rest against the edge of the mattress. “We can share the bed, I guess,” he suggested neutrally, eyes trained on the dusty rafters above them. “If you want.”

Uh, yeah, Ronan wanted. “I mean, if that’s okay with you,” Ronan said, feigning disinterest.

Adam stood up. “Well, I suggested it, so yeah, it’s okay with me.” He grabbed some more clothes and headed for the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower, you don’t have to wait up.” He disappeared through the door.

Not wanting his brain to latch onto the idea of Adam in the shower, Ronan stood up and walked to Adam’s bookshelf. It was just one old shelf screwed into the wall, bricks being used as bookends, and every book seemed to be at least second-hand, with their broken spines and half-missing front covers. Adam would probably be embarrassed about it, but Ronan found himself appreciating the aesthetic of it. He reached out and plucked a beat-up copy of _The Metamorphoses_ before sitting down on the right side of Adam’s bed and beginning to read.

When Adam reappeared several minutes later, hair damp and face glistening, he craned his head to glance at the title on the spine. “Fuck,” he snorted, pulling back the covers so he could climb into the left side of the bed. “Is that Ovid?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ronan grunted, closing the book and putting it down on top of a crate beside the bed. He slid under the covers as well, lying on his back, and stared at the ceiling as Adam reached over to flick off the lamp on his side of the bed. The room fell into darkness.

Ronan couldn’t sleep. He knew that he wasn’t going to sleep, probably not until he went home in the morning, but that was okay. He would have been content to lay in Adam Parrish’s bed quietly until the end of the freaking world, had it been allowed. Beside him, he could feel Adam wriggling onto his side until he was facing Ronan. Ronan fought the urge to roll over and look back.

It had been quiet for so long, no sound but Adam’s steady breathing and the ticking of a nearby clock, that Ronan was sure Adam was long asleep when suddenly he was speaking. Ronan nearly jumped out of his skin. “My dad used to beat me,” said Adam in a detached voice. “My whole life. And my mom let him.” It wasn’t a surprise, not with the way that Adam acted and the fact that he lived alone and the way his father had been treating him when Ronan arrived. But that didn’t stop white hot rage from filling Ronan’s veins, it didn’t stop the bile from rising in Ronan’s throat. He bit his lip to refrain from speaking, because he knew that Adam was not done, and Ronan couldn’t contribute anything meaningful to the conversation. He waited.

“He’s the reason I can’t hear out of my left ear.” Adam continued. Ronan flinched, but if Adam noticed, he didn’t mention it. “That was the night I left. I went to Fox Way, and Blue and her aunts took me in until I found this apartment.” He swallowed thickly. “That’s why I’m emancipated. I pressed charges, and the judge found him guilty, but he didn’t get any jail time. Just probation.” Adam sighed then, so wistful yet relieved, and Ronan had to physically refrain from reaching out and placing his hands on top of Adam’s where they lay between the two boys. 

Ronan waited a few seconds in case Adam had something else to add, but once it was clear that Adam was done, Ronan asked, “Why did he come here tonight?”

Adam made an indiscernible noise in the back of his throat. “He wanted money,” he said, voice small. “Wanted to make me feel bad again for pressing charges, for not calling my mom on Thanksgiving. Told me that I _owed_ him.” Adam’s voice was still mostly neutral, but it was bordering on disgust now, disgust and disbelief. “Apparently he went to my jobs and told them to send him my paycheck. They told him no, since I’m legally emancipated, and he, uh, he doesn’t like to be told ‘no’ very much.”

Every time Ronan thought that he couldn’t possibly get angrier, he did; rage exploded through every square inch of his body again and again and again, fireworks burning him from the inside out, but he said nothing. His anger, he knew, would not benefit Adam. It could not reach back through the past and right any wrongs. It could not provide comfort.

Slowly, tenderly, tentatively, he reached a hand up and laid it on top of one of Adam’s.

Beside him, Adam’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. 

“Anyway,” Adam exhaled, and it was the shakiest that Ronan had ever heard him. “I’m sorry that you had to get involved.”

Finally, with a snort, Ronan rolled onto his side to face Adam. Adam was already looking at him, his face soft with sleepiness and something else, something Ronan couldn’t name. “Shut up,” Ronan said without heat. His hand was still on Adam’s, and they didn’t talk about it, but if Adam twined their fingers together and Ronan squeezed, who had to know? “You don’t have to apologize to me. You don’t have to apologize to anyone.”

The corners of Adam’s lips twisted up into a small, rueful smile. He closed his eyes and burrowed his face slightly into his pillow, his breaths slow and measured. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” Ronan said immediately.

Adam lowered his eyes slightly, focused on where their fingers were interlocked. “Why did you stay?”

It was dark enough so that Adam probably couldn’t see, but Ronan’s face flushed red. “Because you asked,” he said simply, suppressing the urge to clear his throat. The moment was fragile, and he didn’t want to ruin it or break it. 

Biding the inside of his cheek, Adam tapped his thumb against Ronan’s a few times. “No,” he said thoughtfully, his brows furrowed. A divot appeared between them, and not for the first time, Ronan entertained the idea of pressing his lips to the spot. He blinked it away as Adam continued. “I mean, before. When you dropped me off. My dad didn’t show up until, like, twenty minutes later.”

Ronan frowned. “I dunno,” he said, and it was mostly the truth. “I just had a… a feeling, I guess.”

“A feeling,” Adam repeated, his eyes meeting Ronan’s once again. In the darkness of the apartment, the world was monochrome; Adam’s cerulean eyes were slate gray. “What type of feeling?”

“A bad feeling,” Ronan said with a shrug. He thought maybe he should have been embarrassed, but all he really felt was relief. If he hadn’t been there, what would have happened? “I know it sounds stupid.”

Adam shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t,” he whispered. He let out a long breath. “I wish you hadn’t had to have seen that, though.”

Ronan’s frown deepened. “I wish you hadn’t had to have lived it.”

Something flashed across Adam’s face, and then his expression went perfectly neutral. “I’ve got work in the morning,” he said, his voice devoid of any and all emotion. He slid his hand out of Ronan’s grasp and then rolled over so his back was to Ronan. “Goodnight, Lynch.”

Ronan’s breath caught in his throat. What had just _happened_? Had he said something wrong? Probably. He was Ronan Lynch, after all. Physically incapable of not screwing things up. Humiliation and hurt flooded through his system. “Goodnight, Parrish,” he mumbled, rolling over onto his back again. He remained perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, until he was sure that Adam was asleep, then crept out of bed, changed back into his bloody clothes, and drove home. When he finally fell into his own bed and let a wave of sleep take him over, the sun was beginning to rise outside of his window.

School resumed the following Monday, and with it came Adam’s perfect-boyfriend-ness. Driving Ronan and Matthew to school. Driving them home. Sitting with his arm around Ronan in the cafeteria. Slipping little handwritten notes into Ronan’s pockets whenever Kavinsky so much as glanced in their direction. For the first time, though, it suddenly felt forced. Suffocating. Everything felt moments away from falling apart, and honestly, Ronan wasn’t sure how interested he was in fixing it anymore.

Until, about a week after Thanksgiving, the day came that Ronan walked into the cafeteria and found Adam’s usual seat at their usual table empty. He eyed the chair with contempt, like it was to blame for Adam’s absence, and then glanced around the table at Adam’s friends. “Where’s Parrish?” he asked, trying his best to sound bored. He was met with a chorus of _I don’t know_ ’s and _Haven’t seen him_ ’s.

Rolling his eyes, Ronan turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

On his way out, he noticed Blue sitting alone with one earbud in her ear. He snagged her by the elbow and hauled her up. “Let’s go,” he said without ceremony, and he must have seemed pretty unhinged, because she stood up and let herself be dragged out of the cafeteria without a single complaint.

“Are you okay?” Blue asked when Ronan finally released her. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye as she rubbed at the spot on her arm where he had grasped her, but said nothing else of it. “You look like you’re about to commit a crime.”

“Maybe I am,” Ronan hissed, walking so quickly that Blue had to jog to keep up. They were walking down the track, heading for the bleachers. 

Behind him, Blue just laughed. She didn’t say another word as he led her through the gap in the fence on the side of the track, gravel crunching beneath their feet as they wound through the columns holding up the bleachers until Ronan decided quite randomly that they had found a good spot. He slumped against an aluminum pillar and sighed deeply, letting his head lean against the cool metal.

Standing in front of him with crossed arms, Blue raised her brows. “Are you okay?” she repeated, her voice quieter and more gentle this time. Her dark eyes swept over him as if searching for an injury.

It was time to come clean. Ronan didn’t care about the stupid contract or Adam’s stupid rules; he was done, he was over it, he was too fucking tired to keep up pretenses anymore. Ronan cleared his throat, opened his mouth to tell Blue everything that had happened in the past few months, and then he heard something that made him stop in his tracks.

“...do I have to say I’m sorry?” a familiar voice said. Above Ronan and Blue, two sets of footsteps stomped up and then stopped as two bodies sat down. “I know that I fucked up, but it was an accident. I never would have hit you. You have to know that. I would never fucking hurt you.” Ronan’s entire body tensed as he realized it was Joseph Kavinsky speaking, and Ronan had a pretty good idea who he was talking to.

The second person snorted. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Adam. Blue’s eyes widened comically. She opened her mouth to say something, but Ronan quickly put a finger to his lips in the universal _shh_ symbol and she remained silent. “You can’t unring a bell, K. You can’t unbreak a nose. It happened. It will always be a thing that happened, apologies or not. And I’m not even the person you should be apologizing to. What about Gansey? What about Ronan?”

“What the fuck does Lynch have to do with it?” Kavinsky snarled. “I didn’t lay a hand on him.”

Adam’s voice was cold. “ _This_ time,” he snapped. He sounded angrier than Ronan could recall ever hearing him. There was a sudden rustling sound, like somebody had stood up. “I’ve gotta go,” said Adam bluntly. “I have a test to study for.” His footsteps began to move away.

There was more rustling, like Kavinsky had jumped up and was following him. “So is this it?” he demanded. “After everything we’ve been through, this is the fucking end for us?”

Something squeaked — Adam’s shoe as he turned around to face Kavinsky again? “ _The fucking end for us_ was when you _cheated on me_. Don’t get it twisted.”

“No,” Kavinsky said. “No, I don’t accept that. I’m not done fighting for you.”

Blue’s mouth dropped open. She was staring at Ronan like she was afraid he was going to explode, but Ronan was frozen. This was it. This was the moment when it all ended. When Adam got back together with Kavinsky. And Ronan was once again realizing that he really, _really_ didn’t want that to happen.

So he was fucking elated at Adam’s next words. “You’re not fighting for me at all.” Every word had a sense of finality to it, like Adam was hoping this was the last conversation he ever had to have with Kavinsky. “You have a boyfriend. _I_ have a boyfriend. It’s. Fucking. Over.”

Ronan couldn’t help himself; he broke out into a grin. A grin that immediately disappeared when Kavinsky said, “It’s not over. We’re fucking Adam and Kavinsky. Ronan god damn Lynch isn’t going to get in the way of that.”

Suddenly, Adam’s voice was tired. Resigned. It lacked the conviction from before when he said, “Whatever, K. Goodbye.” His footsteps faded away, and after a couple of seconds, Kavinsky’s went off in the opposite direction.

Ronan and Blue were both silent for several minutes, and then Blue erupted into sound. “Kavinsky is trying to steal your man!” she yelled. “He can’t be serious — I mean, did you hear his ‘apology?’ Bullshit! I bet you he hasn’t said a _word_ to Gansey, and I _know_ he hasn’t apologized to you—”

“Blue,” Ronan interrupted, and something on his face actually silenced her. “It’s fine. You heard Adam. He didn’t buy it.” So why did Ronan still feel awful? Why was his chest so heavy? Why didn’t it feel like the end of Kavinsky and Adam? 

Because this was the point of the fake relationship. Make Kavinsky jealous. Hope as Ronan might, the endgame was never meant to be Adam Parrish falling madly in love with him. It was always about Kavinsky. It always came back to Kavinsky. And every time that Ronan forgot about that, he ended up getting hurt.

It was time. This had gone on long enough. It had to end.

“I’ve gotta go,” said Ronan suddenly, shaking his head. Blue opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it when Ronan narrowed his eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning on his heel and striding away at a speed that said _don’t follow me._

He found Adam in the hallway near the library. It was a common place to find Adam Parrish; he seemed to always be just entering or just leaving, half a dozen books in his arms and a divot between his brows. Today, the book at the top of the stack was _Their Eyes Were Watching God_. “Lynch,” Adam said, his lips quirking up in a small smile. “Hey.”

“We need to talk,” said Ronan in lieu of greeting. Adam half-shrugged in a gesture that said _the floor is yours_ , but Ronan glanced around furtively and then leaned in slightly. “Somewhere _private_.”

If Adam was worried, he didn’t show it. He just shrugged again and followed Ronan down the hallway, adjusting his grip on the books he had just checked out. He said nothing as Ronan opened the emergency exit doors at the end of the hall and they stepped outside into the glaring sunlight. Adam kicked a rock into the doorway so they wouldn’t get locked out, and before he had even turned to face Ronan, Ronan said, “We need to break up.”

Immediately, Ronan wished he had waited for Adam to be looking at him before saying it. Now he would never see Adam’s immediate reaction — he would only know what Adam wanted him to know. “Why is that?” asked Adam, his voice steady and emotionless. He turned slowly, his eyes searching Ronan’s face but maintaining a practiced detachment all the same. The only thing that gave away any emotion at all was the way his forearms tensed around his books.

“We accomplished our goals, right?” Ronan scuffed his boot against the sidewalk restlessly. He couldn’t look at Adam. He couldn’t look away. He felt a scowl settle on his face and wondered what expression had been there before. “Kavinsky’s jealous. Gansey doesn’t even think I _like_ him anymore, nevermind _love_ him. It’s over. It worked. I’m done.”

Adam’s mask slipped; the corner of his mouth twitched unhappily. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. “Did something happen?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ronan nearly choked on his own saliva. What type of question—? The way Adam spoke almost made it sound like he thought their relationship was real. Which was great, and all, except for the fact that Ronan had finally come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t, and he wasn’t taking another step backward. Not again. 

“Do you hear yourself right now?” His voice was incredulous to hide the fact that his heart was breaking. “It was a fake relationship with an expiration date. We’ve officially reached said expiration date. Let it go.” He made to step around Adam and head back inside — they were certainly late for their next class — but he froze when Adam spoke again.

“Oh, I get it,” Adam said drily. “You’re chickening out because you don’t want to go on that stupid ski trip.” He was smirking, but his tone was humorless. “I should have known.”

Ronan wasn’t sure which insinuation was worse: that he was a liar, or that he was a coward. Actually, scratch that, the worst part was the fact that both accusations were _true_. His body flooded with shame, hot and thick, but he reached for the door all the same. “Whatever, Parrish.”

But Adam wasn’t finished. “You know, I feel a lot of things about you, Lynch. But this is the first time that one of those things has ever been disappointment.”

God fucking dammit. 

He had been so close.

It wasn’t even Adam’s words that stopped him, not really. It was the way his voice cracked on the word _disappointment_. Ronan clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and sighed. _Walk away_ , the tiny common-sense part of his brain begged him. _Walk away, walk away, walk away._

He turned back toward Adam.

“You’re a jackass,” he said, but he lacked his usual vehemence. “I have one condition.”

“Hey,” Blue Sargent said breathlessly, leaning against the doorframe of Ronan’s bedroom. There was sweat at her temples and she was panting loudly, like she had just sprinted the distance from her house to Ronan’s. Which was entirely possible. “Matthew let me in.”

“He’s always been bad about strays,” Ronan said, hardly looking up from the late history homework he was half-assing. “What do you want?”

The lack of politeness didn’t phase Blue; she would have been more surprised had he invited her in or offered her a drink or something like that. Wordlessly, she crossed the room’s threshold and threw herself down on the empty side of Ronan’s bed gracelessly.

“Watch it,” he muttered, steadying his laptop where it wobbled in his lap, but otherwise he didn’t acknowledge her any further. He continued in his typing, frowning at the screen, until finally he realized that Blue was staring at him expectantly and she would continue staring until he addressed her.

He shut his laptop. His homework wouldn’t be finished today, either.

“Okay,” he said finally, laying on his side and facing her. “You have my full attention. The fuck do you want?”

A smile spread across Blue’s face, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant. It looked more, well… devious. A Ronan smile. “Guess who called me just as I was getting home from school today?” she asked in a sugar-sweet voice that could not mean anything good.

Ronan was decidedly _not_ in the mood for games. “Your dad?” he guessed icily.

Blue didn’t flinch; her smile didn’t even waver. In fact, it _widened_. Oh God. He was suddenly regretting every short joke he had ever made about her. “Your boyfriend,” she said, wiggling her thick eyebrows.

No. No, no, no. Ronan’s insides twisted uncomfortably. He could see where this was going.

“He said the _strangest_ thing,” continued Blue. “He told me that you’re really nervous about the ski trip.”

Ronan’s throat was dry when he replied. “Did he now?”

Blue nodded solemnly. “Yeah. In fact, he said that you decided you would only go if _I_ went, too.”

The palms of Ronan’s hands were sweaty. He wiped them uselessly on his sheets, but his hands just slid over the expensive fabric. “And you said no, right?”

It shouldn’t have been possible for Blue’s smile to grow larger, to become more unkind, but it _did_. “Actually, I told him that God Herself could not stop me from going on this trip if it meant helping _you_.”

A switch flipped somewhere in Ronan’s head. One second he was nervous, and the next he was angry. No, not angry — furious. The sort of fury that wasn’t even in his head or his chest, but in his arms, his hands, his jaw. The sort of fury that ended with a fist through a wall or a windshield. He shoved himself into a sitting position and grit out, “Not fucking funny, Sargent.”

It was never the right move to get angry with Blue, though; she always got angry back. “I didn’t say it was,” she snapped, also sitting up. “Look, I don’t know what your damage is—”

“You need to stay out of things that don’t involve you—”

“Don’t involve me?” Blue laughed coldly. “ _He_ called _me_! I don’t know what’s going on with you two, or how Kavinsky factors into it, but I do know this: you really like Adam, and he really likes you, and you’re both ruining everything. So, once again, it has fallen to me to fix. And I’m fixing it.” She was standing, slipping her shoes on. She was at the bedroom door in just a few steps, but she paused to throw Ronan an exasperated look over her shoulder. “You’re going on the trip,” she said in a voice that left no room for objections, not even from Ronan. “You’ll thank me later.” And then she was gone.

Ronan glanced at the calendar hanging haphazardly on his wall (it was an ASPCA calendar, with November’s picture featuring a yellow dog that was positively grinning for the camera). Paperwork and payment for the ski trip, which would be hosted the weekend before Christmas, were all due within a week. It was, much to Ronan’s dismay, completely do-able. 

Cringing the entire time, Ronan padded downstairs and found his mother standing at the island counter in the kitchen, paging through an old, yellowing cookbook. “Mom?” he said quietly. Aurora looked up and smiled, and she must have read on his face that he had something to say because she remained quiet as she nodded in a _yes, I’m listening_ sort of gesture. 

Ronan swallowed audibly. “I want to go on the ski trip this year,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked it! i really am sorry that i didn't update for so long - i've opened this document every day for months and gone weeks at a time where i couldn't so much as add a sentence. everything sucks and we're living in The Darkest Timeline from that episode of community. unless i die first (not that i will, but anything is possible) i'll update this at some point in time but i'm not gonna try to plan a real posting timeline here. just know i really do have a plot and everything and i do love this fic & y'all. 
> 
> american friends - election day is coming soon. make sure you vote. also, participate in some community aid however you can. 
> 
> i hope you're all doing well and staying safe. as always, you're welcome to come scream at me on tumblr (my asks may be closed but my dms are always open<3) usually i'm @wespers but i'm currently @darlingston because i love one gentleman demon of lithe. i make gifs and edits and talk about adam parrish. anyway, have a lovely day/night! i am now going to go through and answer all the comments that i left unread forever in the hopes that it would motivate me to update (for the record, comments are the best motivation in the world. i can't thank y'all enough for the nice things you always have to say).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, feel free to come interact with me on Tumblr, I'm @wespers! I plan on updating this some time next week but it's also possible it will take longer, but if two or three weeks go by and I haven't posted the next chapter, feel free to bully me into it.


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